Upon a dreadlock, no time for maintenance, fraught by war time; origins, to speak it, primitive religion, blue rivers, can’t escape what he can’t see. Becoming me, to sense an insidious odor, spent off lies, anger seeps out on Thursdays. In needing to feel it, I realized it was missing. In looking around, listening to others, I realized I see it differently. To
analyze a therapist, to see one fishing, to understanding there’s a reason to fish. I’ve learned to pause, to erase, to rewrite, flipping a piece of self; so gifted one is, she dances, sacrificing sanity, jeopardizing personhood—those lasting words, noetic spins, filming parts, memory hectic, trying to remember it as it occurs—as opposed to pure perception.
Everyone keeps about war, if we knew war, we’d try to keep away from war. There’s a curse on men, there’s a blessing on men, either/or, and hell erupts. I was in love with an ideal. Life was unsavory. To believe in beauty, untouchable pride, miracle lane. To imagine a soul a threat, so much wealth in prediction, to offset it before it happens,
swearing it might occur. Let’s be honest, people do as they please, nothing more, & any line of thought can be justified; nay, some ponder Hobbs, some know truth, many enjoy eating shrimp. Never too many crossings, one may become immortal. One waits—accruing damages, hoping they build into a fortress. A man must watch souls, at each turn.
Upon a flower, listening to jaybirds, rethinking happiness; to ensure a note, to hear a songbird, to redefine what it means to feel good, for existence has a strong churn. It becomes to evolve—anchors in life, eczema in nerves, a sudden realization, a gut feeling, to become in parts—so connected, & denying it. It’s a big secret, to have truth, told one
has a lie, with onlookers knowing it was solid. & saying it, to listen to knowing is ignorance; & listening with absolute nature, is a mistake. I watch, listen, feel more than anything, careful at thoughts—so intrusive, never normal, just can’t participate in that.
Most of life is affectation; seeming ventriloquists, brain dead, trying to compete in a big realm. To cry is odd for me. It means something is slipping away. Makes me think I’m losing pieces. Acrobatic arts, bhakti, to imagine the pain in some. To live with it, at the brink of it, rediscovered every few hours. And it’s felt in
muscles, tension mounting up, extravagant understanding, & it can’t be released; so, subtle winds, cogent arms, to endure, beauty coming to ghetto souls. I’d be freedom, winning luxuries, struggling over temperaments; to let go, to stop with controlling, to resist resisting those currents.
