knowledge makes unclarity. it shrinks compartments. it
makes for a world of questions, usually, easy inquiries, with easier answers. (life
is simple for most, it becomes difficult for knowledge bases, it is unique for
the few.) the penalty for the question, the math of the musicology, the tacks
in walls falling to floors. the sewer people, the field blatant into
shattering, seven years missing, asking for her affection. i don’t know what is
apparent. i don’t know why a man takes offence. i don’t know why a victim is
called out of her name. the stairs are louder those days. the doors were taller
those miracles. kids feel sullen. men feel wrinkled. women feel with
questionable tenets, Godzilla angst, King Kong anxieties. to imagine, trying desperately,
never reaching the invisibility, the arbitrary, the life for me in another’s
perspective. knowledge makes unclarity, it confuses what we might find secure, it
points to what is unclear. I watch
the pantomime as it becomes a ventriloquist with tides and strings inside the
outer wires. The rain is on the roof, dripping into the outskirts, framed in a
drop as it hangs from winds; falling into misery, framing into a curse, a
person looking like dementia; coming to soul, twisting into anxiety, so much
love for the picture never flickered.
the bottle was full, to start its existence, it would one day be
empty—in a pit of mud, grass filled with holes, water from rain, snails and
snugs, slimes making easy the oversights.
