slide
into focus, chipped inside, hyper and exhausted. used to heat the cigarette,
down the juice, get raw with the literature; must be careful, reading is a
project, selecting what to put inward; so precious the design, admiring
aesthetics, wondering about something obvious—they fall in love with
conversation. the throat made shy, the money like unscheduled, the agenda was
Chinese cuisines; fresh at it, moving at it, big disrespected at it. polishing mirrors,
so deep inward, an inner empire—fraught by authenticity. it seems to meander on
this one—it’s quite coherent, if to know, the crocodile is popping up—on a
chain, in the swamps, we have a time figuring what’s next. i heard a name, “Megan
Fox,” i looked online, and knew for the massacre inside. women get angry, some
on top, some as toxic innocence—trying harder shine. mystic mythologies, hypertension, keys
flip—never had one; out the coma zone, eating peaches, just baptized an inclination—asking
if years mean lovingness, or youth means promiscuous, or the orientation is
like swine flu. Love had an expensive bag, a jogging suit, and inexpensive Puma’s.
she looked clean. the past is moving,
just hit a corner, like i could get away—from a misthought grin, a freefalling memory,
or skin on skin—inside my brains! so
refined. can’t understand. most hold hard to your mistakes. sew it up, use spirit
faces, explode in silence, dismantle the obligation.
