the dark morning
the mourning wilderness the wound putrefying. a man to his marbles, a soul to
its pain, a doctor to her diagnoses. at psychology laughing inside, not for
farce, mainly it seems obvious—the plane in the sky, the dog running, the
squirrel losing its senses. the anthill, the anteater, the antenna. on plush
purple grass, dye beneath the nails, so decent, so evil, so addictive. like
gunning in a mirror, trying to see, seeking advice from strangers. a normal
man, is a hurting man, a good man, is a seasoned man. like seething in private,
like well behaved in public, which person is viable? looking at manipulation,
feeling part controlled, the other person smiling with glee. to know is to be
different, to see is a pathology, it needs to be full articulation—on another’s
part, the sun shining, like becoming psychiatry; a trail of mixtures, a voice
inside, they dislike when it grows up. needing a pantomime, to call it
catatonic, needing a psychopath, to call for a guard, needing a flirt, to say
he’s deranged. as to give, is to receive, as to knock, like no one is home. it’s
even. it’s a problem. it’s right, it’s too darn smart. it’s wrong, it has an
issue. how many enter groupwork to be diagnosed as normal—some painful ass
enterprise, with the world as reason to feel any type of way.
I cared enough to
notice her. I was smitten by grace, style, self-awareness, deliberate
agitation, wits, smarts, as dressed with decency. so conservative, so republican,
so geared towards animalistic love making. I was strong to bleed, I was last on
the list, I met another, just to feel good. opposites on tracks, railways
passing, a left on Western. so sanctified. so human. so darn alert. too
sensitive, too battled, like war to ask for attention. so open to a feeling, if
it’s one’s own, so quick to make passion. like flames in a forest. like art in
a gallery. we muse with awe. I get tired. as losing to gain. or the world as
under command. to walk away, seated with others, caught in a subtle mind game.
