Tunic toxic. I imagine carrying blurs & phantoms. There’re parallels, but the mind is reaching further back. Magenta eyes—sunshine tears. Like a stampede when it struck. I venture it’s a steep & gloomy secret, a furtive land. It became toils, travail of labor, even a contradiction. I never caught up: I’m still wanting. The gut tells a saga, it may be false, damn sure incomplete. To appear, to side with principles, to lay claim to thoughts, like weeping willows. Over sullen fajitas, palming graces, realizing life has been stolen, life has been given—such blues, jazzy estrangements, over mango margaritas. Desiring closure was a ruse. We’ll exist for pleasures, trying to fight the great cloud, measured by inactivity, refusing to unlatch the prowess. Most noble acts, so sardonic, seduced by otherworldliness. By a fount, breathing-in possibility, conforming to improbability. Years at forests; mind jungles; much clearer. It seems a woman in pain will develop energies—over yonder, a hummingbird is zipping & zagging. Igniting jasmine, or burning a candle, those years ago—set for passions, part unzipped, if to send a feeling—so many at it, it’s unreal. Such picturesque seconds, mesmerizing phantasmagorias, keeping sensualness to realms—logicality over pathos, credibility over flights: it does me no justice.
