Intensely, life is simplistic chaos. I amble through screams. Each moment is challenged.
Granny made love to liquor. We imagine the gawking. A guffaw; dizzying rain. I see in parallels—the future is the past. And loving by myth, intense mirages: Love is still with illness. A garden of lunarians, a sinning winner, catching loses. They might see it, quickness of eyes, radiance, heartbeats. I was smitten as a kid; I was humbled as an adolescent; as an adult, I hold the beast back. We say: “Partner doing a lot.” I congratulate the humble monsters.
Souls were verified; art was magnified; nothing was rectified. I notice either we know how to move or we believe we know how to move.
Where was she? Desert illusion. One glass, a decent ambition. Feeling undercurrents, wrangling interior bottles, jingling according to deaths. Learning new rules. Quite tired of existence. Pleased to see a puppy playing with a baby. If life was easy, as many make it seem, why so many haunted?
Into a ghostly chant, going deeper, knowing how to ache—redundantly redundant—same language, a few new words, to imagine life is different—same particles, same bowels, near a gate, conversing with spirit. Trying to make right, like a decent soul, abandoned to a pool of debts. The grit of damages, those faces, how in hell he woke up?
Orchids. Baby angels. Garments. It wasn’t recent. Some pains can’t seek therapy. No one fails. It just requires more attention.
Life wasn’t given, it was selected. The family was selected. The more hells the quicker to awaken. “Why would one do that to self?” Uncanny. Forever trying to get back home. I must earn what is already mine. I must show out, dance, a sky full of phantoms. I must die repeatedly to live but once.
If the whole life is on camera, many are shedding shivers. I couldn’t sleep. I imagine others were awake. To soar across lands, to uproot oceans, a metaphor with averages.
