come
eat a gnat, try into something existential, but the gnat is the trauma.
something gruesome, causing havoc, looking, searching, sameness, some
metaphysical poltergeist—with hell to pay for each word used. the bleeding of
the cycle, the immunization, the desensitization; so cruel to hurt the one
beloved, so quickly to slander our goals, too swift to do what hurts self and
others. but preaching isn’t sufficient, or it tends to alienate, many becoming troubled
by anxiety; the blues in the satellites, the curse in the berries, the feud in
the torment—to have adored like living was forbidden. a band on marijuana, liquor
vetoed, with nothing but passion for one person; a stranger to myself, affluent
in nothing more, aside for adoring like compassion is illegal. the zeitgeist of
the beloved, the distance between self and matrimony, the field of mementoes
begging to attach to the beloved. saying so little, it can’t be poetry, and
prose is pushing it. it must say something. it must be edgy. this sounds for
criteria. as it stands, no one can worship like a woman, to go so in debt, as
to flame throughout the universe. Notre Dame chants, a soul on violin, a fallen
angel flipping through oceans and dreams, so pluvial upon the cosmos. saying
nothing becomes evident, with something slipping out, at some point striking a
nerve. musical and dance or liquor
and jazz, so simplistic, it starts to churn, or so complex, many frown at the
presence. many inadequacies, many
more privileges, such a paradox—to adore her with zeal, or to dislike her with
fever, so simultaneous as to need her like an infant.
