the real reason for drinking, doing
drugs, the pain, the shivers, the bleeding moon—into sunshine, drastic
measures, traumatic customs, enlove with part catastrophe.
the real reason for dying, like
ever and anon, the examination of the bad moods, stepping into categories,
heaven seems too heavy to cater—the party is too compact.
the real reason is early morning,
as wide awake, facing another day—the wilderness clammy, the humidity oily, the
logic slanted—for the real reason.
the wretched cycle, the winning
music, electric currents—for the real reason is esoteric, linked to travesty,
stars, and dreams.
the real reason to drink—the
unsettling ink, to alter, to get to a space, or days without the county, a dry
week, trying to get the reader’s attention—it’s a whit difficult.
on a side note: i wonder if she’s
saying: “It’s real, but try not to give it everything.” i could pull this at
length, but it’s merely a thought, a conception, a phantom as it stands.
so concentrated, all into her aura,
as returned a spirit inside—the flagrant injustice, such “Deep Water,” i hit
the highway—moving slowly: the caves of dynasties, at hell’s mouth, so in
admiration of the narrators.
back to jousting, sinking into
stillness, atypical images, to awaken his soul, rummaging reality. tremors,
seated in awareness, I bet many know how to affect a soul.
the paw of the Divine, the mental
investigation, the classroom part empty, and no one is concerned.
the real reason is the chasm, the
interior stenographer, the pleas for more grace.
the mind needs some clarity, to
feel clean, i just went five days feeling ugly. it’s a deeper phenomenon,
something inside, disputing the real reason.
like a house swept neatly, full of
emptiness, the vestibule filled with potential tenants.
mannequins seated, listening, dolls
coming to life; to see how debilitating delusion is, to wage war, caught by
various dispositions.
the house is swept, no one is
emphatic about the lease, and spirits come by—looking, as testing the seal, to
find no one has chained the holy. indeed!
the real reason, I suppose, is the
frustration—the merriment, the carousel; the comradery, the loneliness of the
acquisition, the portals, the communication, or the interior thirst to depart
and live.
