Let wilderness be. (I do feel fraught inside, language of mystery.) I would chuckle at self, devastated by sternness. It takes much to win, ducks & geese, dear radical floods. Those with reality, an awesome curse, able to see—a battle cry, a pigeon coup; trapped in science, flirting with religion, such realism in humanism. I was dispensing parts & pieces, fragments; trying as it appeals, or waking up at 1 p.m., so indifferent—laughter of society. I kept missing ingredients.
Let wilderness be. (Those wiles, discovered in reigns, feuding with reflection; a damaged poet, fraught by heart motion, trying to giggle without self-consciousness. We might take prose too far. Each focus, revelation, wandering consciousness—appealing to respects, to see so many sides, origin serving as torrential. Let wilderness be.) It is not all good, how many feel it, what was creation pondering? I sip it, to think in time, flashbacks, memories, as one sits in her den—those
radical hertz, those radical feelings, to space out; it’s unsteady, at moments facing reality, in those dreaded dungeons, to see a deeper reality, part balanced, such asymmetry. We never know, against all knowing, learning to adjust to that. No one is listening to what we know is true. Crazed participants. I should not be a certain way, asking self, what should I be like—something breeding comforts. A lasting art, a diamond skill, if one is equipped, we fear otherwise.
