I try to reach
further, amused I suppose, regathered in terror. the furniture is beautiful. I look
like going mad. I want it for myself. I slice an orange, I open a can of
cocktail fruit, I get lost in a small fantasy. it must be illegal, for it never
comes, it never meets with fruition. the fruitage of the butterfly the cave of
the mistakes, like crazy how we ignore each other. I fret ample lies, I want to
remain clear, it’s powerful misery. so amazed how simplicity is
affective/effective. I close my eyes. I write stories. I would if loving was
principle. skirts. denims. dresses. a rollercoaster. a gut. it hits like acorns
to asphalt. the dearest remorse, the fiercest curse. a bundle of connectivity. I
was thinking, lost in a zone, realizing, it means so little. I’m aging, dealing
with immaturity, dealing with grownup fires. you might appear, on some campus,
deafly nonchalant. I might see you, in some office, wearing indifference. I might
hear something in your voice, as we afflict in subtleties, something we need—most
aren’t giving. the apples are ripe, we make pie, in different homes, attending
to different priorities. similar pies, similar ingredients, laughing under
pressure. something like anguish, so close to our pillows, a man usually will
notice; so much a claim, she may beg to differ, we seem so demanding. this is
going to hurt, sound impossible, but we look for one to take the pain away. a
dear mistake, a cut in veins, pure, raw anxiety: cuddled in a ball, pulling at
curtains, tearing flesh, screaming loudly, the demon in the angel. the
furniture is beautiful. it carries gadflies. it wants to lash out. so much
inferiority—much more insecurity—a kiss becomes a rescue. I try to reach
further, infused I suppose, regathered in examination. a soul for pangs. a
miracle—it will challenge. eating purple grapes.
