Feelings aren’t in sequence. Most fret, most aren’t
singing, framed by a mudflap. Keen on
emptiness, a non-language, a
behavior, filmed by nonexistence. To
imagine living, if a psyche dares,
parasailing, paragliding, doing
more to participate in existence;
settled in a den, maybe reading,
listening to leather squeak; filched from self,
deeper in malaise, frowning a little,
to smile for a loved one. By hives, antes,
existence as dilemmas, to wonder
how many she has claimed. Damp swamp
emotion, blackdamp art, facial
expressions made warmth. To understand an
adversary—to reckon with an
inconsiderate Arc, unknown to self
—pleading excellence. Marshweed, muddy thorns,
trekking lower—arms reaching, to grip
suddenly, like life is marvelous. More
waves, gateways, at clues, no true depth, or too
much to share; many called for exclusion,
many more wanted to know, landing on a
name, as identifying it in depth.
A little froward, flavescent at times,
an aqua moon, a noisy sunflower,
with pain seeming extraordinary;
jasper dice, florescent lies, wondering
where Love dwells—a heart-comb, art for
memories, paved by emotion; whet with
passion, to panic on contact, sweating
profusely. Feelings aren’t in sequence—blasé
is in motion, or too low to mingle,
anxious to express, most needing
understanding.
