the diet is the gnashing at armor,
kept secret from the one undergoing the change. (people take liberties.) trying to govern passions, trying to sail
to shore, these are difficult things. at times, there’s upheaval, in aesthetics,
the hurt makes the revelation. blackberries are pivotal, black chalky wine,
maybe a sly worm. the mockingbird struck my home, derision struck my home, the
white whale has struck my soul. i never laughed. i treated it like a case study.
i became a counselor. in doing this, i learned to suffer better. i, too, fathom
a dear point, to maintain status quo, one will permit a great deal of
suffering. it’s often written away—one can’t change, one can’t help him or herself.
the Lamborghini dances, the Ferrari keeps in place, i speak of spiritual
engines—albeit, the creativity is mocked. so heroic is to die for a worthy
person, a worthy cause, the pale nights, the clear moons, they mean so little
without a worthy cause, a worthy friend, the love of life, as it is revealed. i
was hit with vertigo. i was hit by a powerful person. i’ve been partial,
slanted, for several decades. i accept the bias. i relish in the freedoms. as a
right given to adore whomever i feel—like puritan poets, Protestant Mystics,
archaic monks; too much to try aversity—too little to call it leisure—as an
impious-clarity, or a filthy holy soul, or touching in passing to forget it
hurts; rolling a spirit-car, like a streetcar, in a field, right in the town;
watching Sisyphus, waiting in line, eternity is a minute, a minute is eternity;
to sew us, into a dilemma, to love but hate, like a man can’t get it right; if
to want, to bleed, to ache, to penetrate—some late invention, some core
reality, like hell to our very guts. reaping where i have dread-sewn. playing dodgeball
with my conscience. at the church playground, undergoing something mystical, as
made tragic, for now i see with different lenses—the watermarks, the skylarks,
the keychains—against the skies.
