the frame is important. the dice
are tumbling. we hope for an urgent seven. so poignant inside, trying to
mitigate the anguish, rain has gone viral. Love will dance, take to affection,
laughing like stirring winds; so addicted to a concept, so indoctrinated, afraid
to assert against its existence—the ink of the sun, the option to resist, the
terror many movies stir up. the clock is leaking, the skies are watching, the
pavement and bushes bear witness. like releasing an album, so sensuous the sinew,
the city with goosebumps; if but to feel perfect, something inside, depending
upon intake and innocence. the flight of the feral—the moon to the wolves—the
sheep to the coyotes; so effaced it seems, so erased in private, the first
question, becomes the final leap. adrift at spaces, so refigured, to watch,
listen, and see.
anything
perspiring, anything with breath, it becomes an adventure: to have penalty in
our loins; to surrender as if; if more than name and its security. nothing more
than love, or apathy, cultures priding over anti-emotions; how to escape from
feelings—it becomes deep training—officials might call it an aberration. many
are in essence—the fields of slaughter—with passion seeming possible,
notwithstanding, a lack of emotion—it becomes a paradox … we must first define
passion—as mere intensity, either present or absent of love. if passion is
intensity, are emotions required to have intensity? if so, we have a
contradiction, and we have an escape from self, where it’s impossible.
