those scriptures, those women, so
esoteric, so concrete. many sonic waves, ultrasound communication, such sweet resonance.
the inner explorer chases you. through art, laughs, bass and jazz. so benthic,
touching ocean floors,
resisting better judgement. deeper
causality, on a wide scale, uncomfortable enough to speak. subtle sound, hounds
inside, the sky at reverence. to
say feelings, becomes the haunt of
feelings, like muscle memories. supported in literature, taller tales, with
experiential evidence—the cage we broke, the valleys we tread, the inner courts
and chains. (she is a guru, mad at
souls, we need to know why it works)—as
for some, others not, with whales flooding spirits; such menacing affectation,
so late for trial, at the tribunal speaking boldly.
harmonicas playing, the secretary
bringing forth files, the stenographer typing quickly—upon one wiggly rose amid
a dozen weeds. genetics is an issue, right answers are offensive, rather call
one a naïve person. anything alive
carries a label, a definition,
depended upon the (one) person interviewing—those dispositions, the alley of
biases, the person that plain dislikes the interviewee. it’s amazing
how two will sit, giggle, play
nice, and a sociopath walks away. women for women. men for men. difficulty is
in the objection. it becomes too many niceties. it becomes too many arbitrary,
self-serving rules. it seems easier to listen,
nod, and walk away. even this is a
problem. (everyone will be labelled, by one—that hasn’t a label.) the curse is
in the rant. no one has ever done anything incorrect. it’s correct
because I did it. it doesn’t
matter. it never does. if it wasn’t true, I wouldn’t be affected. so
uncomfortable. hating to hear it. with so much to suggest it. but the roads are
filled with flowers, the words aren’t so redundant, the beautiful
bride blew a kiss; the dangers in
loving art, the velvet rawness, the violet ghosts—so many phantoms, so much to
digest, one is getting weary—to grow in skies, to have so
many lies, as to vacuum the camp. one
lie at a time. one cleansing a week. one deliverance a month. the curse is found
in the happiness of the miseries, the voicebox of the vanishing—coming to pass
right by; winning is not
relevant, being right is important,
when one listens, or speaks, it must make sense inside—if not, the
subject-analyses isn’t viable. to imagine one knowing when to
smile, laugh, cry, become offended,
to show deference, to become assertive—done from systematic responses, thought
out, in what capacity is this defined—nothing is spontaneous, and it's normal
for others. the initial five
minutes—determines the next twenty years.
I speak with pain or disdain or total detachment—at those few minutes; while
years progress, it becomes less of an issue, we take
the good, if without subjective
clause, without pliability, and we turn it into something bad; a whit thankful
to see, never wanted to be less than you, in order to fit in like a good person.
too sound to be soundless. too in error to
matter. too insignificant to be of
importance. many are doing spirit-music, playing with elements, all to harness
one’s voiceprint. it must feel odd—being concerned with one—based in the
evidence by personal concerns.
