“the wilderness was solace or wires such
telling archives. to evince is impossible so qualified where critical thought
is absolute distrust. to paint pictures to plant a platypus our minds becoming
wolves. so tender but rough or so open for some so hellish on color. to abide
as polite to perish for self where others hear heartbeats. I would search in
vain for something human where I was met with vanity. I would feel like forests
or frantic a star so accursed to die here. a Bud Light a pack of cloves or more
bloodwork. I see jubilee, or such intentional laughter, while a man is cursed
to see subtleties. deliberate shifts. our rights so important. while a magician
promised immortality. so much to need essence so gentle to let go where privacy
shows society altering good people. we’re bombarded the catapult is innocence
while every number speaks to insanity. a genetic hostage a presidential hazard while
might is such a dangerous creature. the death of us. those whales we harvest.
while people die in America.
“Rome for me or
Grease for us or logos by privilege. our mistakes. our foolish pains.
while it depends upon correct analyses. they thought us dead. we took to
syntax. we read relentlessly. it seems difficult. it becomes training. while
many have little respect for books. it silences time. such a need for
relaxation. especially, On Powdered Ground.
“we
write prolifically. we sense something unspoken. we make terrible bloopers.”
