i wonder if unease is forever/ if thoughts correlate/
if a hunch is a winner?
the mind plays its chorus, piano is lethal, a surprise
at each corner.
i have learned to adore, with much to adore, spectrums
and specters.
into the melody, darkness at horizons, culture and
sin.
you are consumed. you dance differently. you expect deference.
i ask if it was earned. you stare in confusion. I ask again. you walk away.
a man put on his greatest performance for an
opportunity—if to win for a second—in a dreary screen, on a weary stage, the
mouth is full of geometry.
you say you feel evil. most would never admit that.
you discover people are listening, watching, avoiding you. you damn them to
hell. secretly, you feel ostracized.
your child is like a prodigy—everyone loves her: you
are years into hating her.
by violin we mean a story. something credible or
repeated or filled with dandruff.
in the agony of the mountain, thoughts were induced,
herbs were taken. he came closer to himself; it must be genuine—for it’s
bizarre … the way we treat our brains.
i started feeling uncomfortable. she tried several
angles. i couldn’t open up. no need to dwell on it. it just seemed unlikely. no
one (i assert wrongly) wants to be studied. if so, something is at play.
i admire many. it happens to undo me. (i’de prefer
newness of cloth, as opposed to vintage of cloth.)
even now, i can’t understand, with flames racing
through hearts and scenes and cavities—reminded of the greater indifference,
the one deliberately dismissive—and needing complete ecstasy.
last to make it in, was first at bat, and first to make
it in, was last to be chosen. the lines are long. there is usually a line. we
might ask concerning the lines.
