ink tends to creep inside. feeling
its gradation, its silent presence, makes for quintessence. colors in skies, energies in cosmos,
ontology in a syllable—people needing, needing is a necessity, not mere
needing, never, more needing something specific. like entire souls, seconds consumed, each
knot knitted with care … chasing tails, or climbing trees, or eating cherries …
so gelid when pensive, abused by deliberate, methodical violence—against mind,
against faith, against materializing flesh; tick tock, hands stand aloof, major
obedience, just following orders.
ripe melancholia, drenched in observation, to understand forces,
dark/lighted forces, probe, direct, say so little of their compulsions …
conversing in impulses, ballet on wires, feet heavy in a tornado; nothing sees
freedom as herself. left with
dialogue, looking for dialogue, as it appears to the interior ka. shelters for normality. rigidness for
coldness. resurrection for receptivity.
