the fame for the good deed—the problem
chasing—the winning inside mirrors. early pangs, trying to be normal, no amount
of pretend seems to do it—to mimic those emotions, to feel like others, most smile
at mystics.
treated a certain way, needing the
feeling, guilty of the dynamics; the life inside, the luxurious absence, by
chain, chase, bass, and mass.
like a dozen souls, different
realities, rules made in silence—the penalty of tenacity, the stubborn musician,
the perilous viola; her voice is a contract, I signed her lungs, I wake up—reaching
for her aura.
I was sick those months, assigned a
spell, like hating the process, in love with the helium, aside persons seeming
insincere, except for the cozen mountains.
so grandiose, so lowly, watching my
ink, watching the sipping, heavy—on a sober leaf; to hear a thought, so clear, I
hope she feels redeemed.
it was morning, like treading my
voice, asking for liturgy; trembling with tremors, chills with reality—like asking
for motivation … life becomes the heaving of the absolutes; life was once a
bag, a drag, a few cigars.
I needed to let go—perception was
off—everyone knows the feeling.
Love has worshipers—like a dynasty—it
seems uncanny. I wanted to be amazing, the greatest to touch it, read too much
to accomplish the task.
I needed to let go—conception was
unfriendly—everyone knows the feeling.
so much will be reviewed—so much explained—much
more will remain unspoken—the tacit geniuses, the gangly perfectionists,
treated as special—by one person.
I needed to let go—she did the same—I’m
off by it, I’ll suffer by it, and bounce into a cloud.
