I often mistaken by an assumption. I often die during a feeling. It’s not what it is, as to prove relentless, it’s what it feigns to mimic. It would deceive and leave one bereft. It has some place though, one emotion-thought, tides waving, reflecting upon innocence, so hectic. I sense each
thought beguiles, with all of certainty, indeed, let live. Each portrait tries to surrender to self, tries to feel fantastic, maybe, I’ve cursed self. Meaning seems in a moment, shifting as time travels, as circumstances churn. To have adored in a second, to remember anguish, found excellent and
confusing how souls dance. On a good day, right in place, on a bad day, too much misery. Indeed, two might gasp in place, might release in harmony, might walk away with despair. I wonder what souls say to ourselves, trying to keep it together, so many delicacies, such disharmony, to get into
a space. I knew it was excellence; what defines us is esoteric, sheer remote learning. Many have exposed pieces of a sky walk; many more have sensed indifference. […] of what we expect from each other: Is it fair? And Love is stately, Junoesque, rummaging sub-spirits—a type of thunder,
to sit down and unpack self. If it was with penance, to invert unto love, a radical belief. To receive it on purpose, direct activity, to feel alone in a second, and sudden into rapture: so aloof though. As it delivers itself from alienated assertion, to vindicate what tends to ruins.
II
So great the problem, so offensive to say it. I thought I felt you. Underground is deceptive. Who’s to blame? A person, of course. I smile it off. Such stressed-out color. It seems typical. I tip over. I regroup. So serious—at points. We might take something for that. You seem even. I imagine one
in control. It seems difficult. I layer accordingly; needing what can’t dream. Can’t explain it. It seems human. To have stated so much—across a career. I do apologize. I’ll leave that to its lesson. Accursed as we are, so much helium, one would think to flying. And both are intolerable, so
captivating, an orison for a long ride. So iridescent. To utter something forbidden. Despite ourselves sharing indifference, something tries at intimacy. I begin to wonder, if a negative is present: Is it still intimate? At a side point, along a sidewalk, staring from a van, to see a flower
striking its breath, deep concrete. At a different lake, depth an impassive pond, musing upon ducks and squirrels. I’d ask for normality, as if with a rubric, to wonder if I arrived. To need a feeling, to describe a voice, chairs meant so little in hindsight. To come to affects, mesmerized by something
unbeknownst, sticking to seeking some mirror. If it reflects, we admire our souls. After Love kindles a guitar, to display an art, so confusing, to wander down memory lane. So many worries. It becomes life. Seated on an intellectual’s bench. Just seeing how it unravels.
