We might wonder about pain, the way it effects/affects
the brains, the days in my dungeons—the cigarette hanging, the heart beating,
the descendants longing to get back.
Get it out of the soil, rolling into my pupils,
laughing to shake the disgrace; the notion of misery, the company it engenders,
the wars and battles—the life given to feel good. Open
the book, take a deeper look, this is our lives—the realism
is crashing; most popping pills, damaging their spines, with a Korean beaut; so
damaged so sewed so crazy—
thinking quicker, keeping silent until it aches,
laughing at gossip. We should follow protocol. We should give the benefit of
the doubt. And we acknowledge prose is distinct
from poetry. Talking in prosaic(s), or bending sentences,
barely to fathom as it churns, turning insides, so real it was nice to pass the
baton; lacing boots, stomping boots, living
like it was natural to die; this community raided the
refrigerator, it’s so over. Yet, it continues: grapes and wines, living like
penalty, so low, to hate the damn reflection; new
logic, old pain, so out of reassures. Boxed in, at the
light, the world is loaded; trying to pay attention, to pay for instruction,
the rules keep shifting.
