Gumdrop

(where it damages, it is unhealthy.) I shred intuition, where crystals search. (by sparkle when it came. by wretched terror those years.) I can’t reimagine you. it seems unlikely. or it seems strange; when untrained ice becomes the merchant of thermostats. I fidget a twig, sitting on a stump, sipping a liter of 7up. I hold a photo. it is what we become. it holds a memory. I stare with intensity. I envision a casket. but it was too expensive. the graves are whispering, but nothing audible, it’s the price of pushing one’s limits. to feel so deeply, as to curse ancestry, while horrifying deaths have become visions. I can’t see our pride. but it determines our cores. while one might disagree but still have his affinity. I leave the stomp. I see a headstone. it reads: Ashley was a kind soul indeed! I undress a feeling, asking for its origin, while concerned by first causes. there is music on waves, the sun is airborne, those chemicals are hard to unreason. I write a vignette. it seems hardwon. I toss it nearby. an episode is brewing. we are looking for both blueprints and cheat-sheets. in truth, we are looking for forgeries, or plagiarism, or a reason to uninvest in faith. I nestled with a hummingbird. it was talkative. or at least, I imagined. something has become olden. prose seems to reinvest its intentionality at every step. she is bombarded. she is bombast, or pretentious, or too devoted to honesty. she is a maverick, even a caricature, or plain avoiding the facts. she is a contradiction, a paradox, an ambiguous tease—to test, treasure, or torture our capacities. (I used to love her.) I etch her now. I cleave to essays now. but we can’t escape prose. this beast with its burden. this isolated/colloquial creature. but something moves me. while I’m unattached. where I preference a certain reality. it is oxymoronic. or sheer non-commitment. or something fighting to give control its push. our interior basking our mathematics our astronomy and agriculture. our mind-garden. our semblance of something balanced. or our sunbath, so close to reneging on those screams. if but a given limelight! if but to share and diminish! while after something we call, “Human concrete.” it seems terrible to need our realities. it seems imperfect to commit to structure in a world parading its instability. but we need pavement. or we need commands. or we need format. I left the forest. I wasn’t serene. I smelled perfume. it was psychosomatic. I saw stardust or powder or a fairy afar. it seems its course. to perish in turmoil. or to portrait quite well. those pirates running those pirates chasing while life is a similar cycle. the downpour of Buddhism. the legacy of Hinduism. while something is too equipped to conquer. so undone. relying upon cobras. as to knit something back together in time. it becomes unlikely. I feel something is unsung. something quite crucial: Is there such hubris that never suffers? as conditioned to win, while too insensitive to feel, where most things are static in their eyes. (it seems critical to placate. but where is the substance? when two people do not know each other. as to ever agree, even with perversion, while struggling inside. wings are impossible. love is dependent upon façade. where as long as I say good things, the other person might be there for me. this is why we have siblings. to know true friendship.) I felt reappeared for a moment. by magnet or parachute. to wish upon a gumdrop.