the uneasiness of
easygoing, landmines inside, I might overlook what I see: much cattle life,
physicality, physiognomy. the days are irritating, sensing status, yearning for
privilege.
the room is beige,
filled with beanbags, a woman is somber. telephones are ringing. a kitten is
purring. I have remembered a false dream. I keep explaining, I have too much
detail, it seems fabricated.
another day has
passed. the iron is old. the board is new. I go outside, the neighbor is
religious, either he or his wife keeps watering my lawn. “Good Moring.” the
same in return. we never make small talk—I close up. I think in two years, his
wife may have said three words to me, her face speaks more.
the dream is
recurrent. the flyleaf is full. the ladybug is curious.
I keep going for
details. I wake up, I grit my memory. to no avail, just pieces.
some battle with
unconscious/consciousness. I know it means something. it keeps coming back.
or
hearing furniture
at night. I just say, “Gone now.” I imagine myself a little differently. the
dresser has never made a sound, it starts its chatter, I look, then turn over.
let’s add fact to fiction, it’s cold, hot, in between, this effects density—which
causes noise.
the uneasiness of
easygoing, the deep dark crevices, the bright gray moon.
