intimidation brings monsters
soaring.
we met with instant friction. a
tale says this is kismet. it may be in error.
i’ve mused gently—over rocky angst—just
imagining her worth: the frail giant, the raging misprint, beauty bottled by its
existential. to have notion to jot a note, if to write a poem, hiding and
finding misplacement—an attraction that churns, turns to nausea, in the midst
of nihilism. a grand piano. an itchy eye. at best, a clear cut, simultaneous
set of opposite emotions: to like and dislike, to need and repudiate, to nourish
and neglect.
Love is an edited manuscript. it
should be ready. (many readers aren’t interested.) it’s like a steak almost right,
at a five-star restaurant, when one can’t embarrass the cook. it’s like
galloping on a wild stallion, loving the summer breeze, unable to find
grounding, subsequently, falling. i’ve been seasoning unthawed scenarios,
making havoc inside, daydreaming to a perceived response. i’ve been disgusted,
distrusting illusion, padlocking sincerity inside—the inked skies, jade blue
horizons, disjointed waves.
it seems accustomed to hitting
first, and possibly mating later. fair enough!
i’ve had feelings erupt, kept in
check, in fact, that becomes the irritation; the feelings, here, are tempered,
while over yonder, they were partly untamed inside—a rushing inrush of pure
delusion, where it’s life giving, and unsteady. how one yearns for fruition. it’s
like new attraction, a younger version, as it becomes raw and unfiltered.
adoring comes with consequence, an
edge towards surrendering, and utter trust in the beloved.
so amazing is the reality of the
above, wherewith it comes natural here, and so unbelievable elsewhere.
