we’ve discussed
pegs in airs as completely incomplete. we’ve noticed some semblance of
insecurity, watching the interior watchdog. we’ve belittled ourselves, praised
our works, left unsteady on our concrete. the jazz of systematics, reduced
inside, as to something quite natural.
I dream of
something many are experiencing, with complaisance screaming at initiatives.
the comforts of the lover—why is it simple—why not die to own us?
too many veneers,
too many veils, it might be unfair to be honest, but it helps to develop love:
raw, undiluted, agitated, inflexible devotion.
my soul sits
sacredly. my spirit suffers its joys. my mind mingles with fantasy.
I can see the
perfect scream, so irregular, nothing like what others may feel, comforts. many
washed dishes, a little bleach, if it were so simple.
by intuition we
might know with uncertainty. to leave one there.
I understand a
best friend, a love unfolding, a deep darker grace. this is what we attach
ourselves to: pulsation, revving interior, banter, angers.
I must detach in
order to love. I must love in order to grow. there’s no greater essence than bungee
jumping amore.
I meant to speak
solely on spirit. I believe I have. the reader must bend the waves.
I have charity,
fervid charity, more than enough to share. somewhat biblic, many allusions, it
amazes how we try to pin the tail on the donkey.
I’m an optimistic
pessimist. “How is that?” I have a feeling, in its calibrations, as inclined to
let go of control, while analyzing things for more than their appearance.
we might outdo
skepticism. we might let go of epistemology. we might hold to what we have.
