…this
day to cries, as lost but revived, as sluggish but mobile: our empire minds,
those by luggage, attempting pure balance: such moody shadows, such
confrontation, such deliberate appeasement: this cold feeling, this noisy box,
attempting pure balance: at public countries, at public art, noted as one with
imbalance: this chattering symbol, those demanding lights, our glasses fogged
by facts: at preparative winds, pulled and tugged, while conformed by childhood
trauma: this cryptic cycle, or repulsive chimes, while another is studying
responses: at moons speculating, at axioms deliberating, such lively maxims:
while taking courage, this itch to shutdown, where one self-motivates: as torn
creatures, battling ventriloquists, or reapplied nightmares: to cushion
something growing, to have setbacks, to play our trombone…. I know pressure, this intimate presence,
walking through valleys: to sense shadows, even three or four, while forced to
shift towards one: our winded mountains, our gardened molehills, or our souls
deliberating: this shift in time, this sudden feeling, such regurgitated
remorse: where thoughts dine, our tuna with salad, our juice with lemonade:
this fragmented picture, wrestling against desires, while needing distraction: such
by sunrise, this inner instrument, this caged countenance: at structure and
breath, at subtle heaviness, or something believing in tears: our college
courses, our classroom peers, or those days to figuring that many are without
guidance: our purposed tutors, our spiritual intakes, our booklet mentors: as
creatures gnawing, searching for abbreviations, or reduced to acronyms: those
relearned habits, those readjusted realities, or so close it begins to run. …at motion with harpoons, tugging at iron,
divested of normality: those chasing feelings, this intimate edge, those few
with stock in our lives: such beautiful souls, asking pertinent questions, while
supplying a different perspective: but easiness isn’t easy, while love
withstands its nature, where many suggestions irritate: this fortunate man,
this fortunate reality, while we wonder about others: those perfect outfits, or
perfect makeup, or that perfect suit: our watered minds, flushed by others,
where thoughts reward feelings: or emotion lingers, atypical sadness, while
souls are too observant: aligned in pure thought, or hard-earned balance, while
feeling perspective slipping: this inner drilling, this constant shifting,
while readjusting something seeming inconsequential: our math with instructors,
our part-way physics, at something mainly in our brains: such soft overcast,
such heatless climate, or wrestling some internal habit: if but to fly, as
gentle souls, our minds would create perspectives….
I
lost something, this carefree examiner, thoughts became matter: this deep
reality, this deeper perspective, this revised pursuit of love: to need
qualifications, while requiring something lighthearted, or something so
trenchant we reappear: that heightened self, our localized hearts, while
flushed by irritations: to shift in mid-motion, to go from angry to
sentimental, or so charged it felt life to grow nearness: this place in time,
this music in roses, or this symphony in pure dialogue: as rarely something
mythical, but ever something mystical, while tugged by former magic: our minds
computing, our spirit-computer verifying, our pauses seeming sufficient: if but
with life, this song made successful, our media proffering diamonds: those few
mentors, those few demands, where reality seems artificial: such relative
thought, such deep irritation, where we sense something moving by anxiety:
those inner microphones, this long advised feeling, at something so intricate we
carry it for days.
