it feels like last rites, looking at
pavement, eating disagreement. it lives inside, the wildrose property, more
smothering vexation—battled mirrors, different reviews, a person will feel
inside of you. the galloping brains, the inconsistencies, I see mental health
became popular. most know someone twisting, going through deeper moments,
another wrote on anxiety. how to communicate it? the therapists are listening.
the message seems clear, the fixup shows complication.
the permanence of the situation—presumes
the endlessness—as wrestling forever might seem daunting.
symbolizing the tragedy, worrying
those officials, everything is a coincidence. so disproportionate—so misread—it
will never be even, as in the voice disputed as the art. the tomorrows the bees
in the leaves, the motivation to be better; pushing tsunamis, eating tornadoes,
bread and butter and three major schisms.
the prisms in my brains the
slickness, like each wind has a tone. grasping a hand, the water running, salt
on the rug—chicken on the counter.
I’m mixed, still a Cadillac, still
at the train-house.
a little tired of it—the party was
lavish—everyone was spent, lost, mining solace as the hoops.
to remember more of the forgotten.
to understand more about behavior. too flustered to act in accordance with wisdom.
