I need to feel. I need to move, to
eat wilderness, to praise monks, so estranged. Inside of notebooks. Inside of
computers. Most aren’t amplified. Murmurous winters. Susurrous summers. Social disfigurement.
Allusive memories. When a soul is punctuated.
I need to feel. I must move, to dance
on clouds, to become autumn. The first book, my life, someone knows thunder.
The beat is hypnotic. The pain is
beautiful. I need to feel.
Like trapped inside. Like running in
space. Like walking in a body bag.
Pure glamor. Rectified ambition. Assumed
perfection. Again, unfelt, unfeeling, not callous.
Somewhere in between.
Not feeling. Not unfeeling. Not flat
enough to unfeel.
Hysterical litanies—I need those
waves—rushing to know estimation.
Brushfire. Voice persistence. Instruction.
One has gone further than social rulings.
