the literature is perfected, coming
from excellence, each sentence made precisely. minds drift into consciousness
tapping into the universe, the zeitgeist of a given time. days of churning
literature, books blossoming, premises argued to a fine tune. multiple points
articulated.
nutshells of
conscienceness—earlobes zeroing in, some remarkable awareness taking place. I would
have followed granny, becoming in wholeness, but mother was insistent on
a different religion.
drums are tribal, for each culture—there
is a jungle inside, filled with antiquity, to go so deep, one oozes onto earth—inside
or outside of soil.
studded in consciousness, blooming
with sincerity, such a person would pass away often; maybe ruthless, pushing
harder, and feeling alone, in a space, unable to get closer—to rhythm and blues,
to jigsaw and jazz, to jukebox and jiggling; needing decency, located in
distance, above all, denied intimacy. yes. most are thankful for faraway drums—they
fail to know our deception.
I keep composing about the same few
women, unless stated otherwise, but I do not have a muse. I’ve met a few—they articulate
with swiftness, each is never revealed, until revealed, while intimacy with one—remains
a mystery to me: in body with caution, touching with distance inside, refusing
to water the matrix. in my fortune, or misfortune, I admire souls—with heaven
and hell seeming important; names are irrelevant, in accuracy, it will not be,
in mind, I’ve come across a few or more that make womanhood look sensual and
glamorous—notwithstanding, the perceived anguish and uneasiness—the malaise, if
we will.
I wonder about spontaneity. to see
one throw caution to the winds. to become every inch of her womanliness.
the archeology of lovemaking, the
psychology of sexual enterprise, the agriculture of progeny. aside is a
cautious person, or an incautious strategist, at some point absent from the
universe.
passing away. to notice or feel
assumed—into different cultures, with one’s own made prominent, at reach, but
distant, because of different factors. it’s a copout not to mention unsaid
factors.
many have dreamed of a polyamorous
lifestyle. others need one forever. some just need to feel freedom. the ink of
the poet, the sink of the plumber, the chalkboard of the philosopher.
I was hyper in my address. it never
dawned on me as some error. I do realize people like to be treated accordingly,
based on attraction, responsibility level, and awareness: a lady is a lady, a
gentleman is a gentleman, a gigolo or harlot—and we expect something unhewn. this goes on and on—if we expect crudeness, we
are tolerant of such, if we expect chivalry and seduction by craft, we demand
their presence. it seems askew to me. and there are variances, depending upon
openness and sexual prowess. nothing is concrete here.
I sound like one facing his own
slaveries, petting a chameleon, playing dodgeball—with woman, life, and
fretting a fiasco.
it’s been years, the untold
venture, the cryptic chaos—leading into days, the absence of force and self, the
courage to pull away: homes, if-ness, and
whatness—fleeing wrongness, explored, a guidepost, a signal blinking, souls seeking
rightness.
