being
goofy is normal. feeling insecure is normal. many expect these elements. I walk
further, I see a cliff, I leap—such flapping such feathers such spread’d wings.
so at her side so pathological while nurturing some interior wound; to guide
self, to administer research as a soul indebted to sorrows. by beauty of dying
by richness in wounds or passion in suffering; to need desperately to hold like
living by sin to ruin perception.
over a Smirnoff or under a cigar to
hit life rolling our dice. to rethink on happiness or to silence a thought
while days consist of fulltime maintenance. too much reading or too little
satisfaction while sure against pleading for particulars. indeed, the gospel of
interiority or those namaste mansions while two people might vibrate for hours.
Love was naked. her gown slipped. a man has favor in helium. too uncured to
revive or such a path in valleys while we trekked three alleys; to arrive in
patience or to see something outlandish, it never surprises where indecency
might appear. but a softer spot a dear phantom while angling for insightfulness.
it wouldn’t survive, in pure
blizzards, while most are claiming lieutenant.
I drift into a soul someone I met
while sudden into recognition. those sagic wars some person inside where Luther
was adamant.
Love angered her-self to distortion
of her mantels to realization of her stature.
I misunderstood essence it was life
so far into a panic—those blinds those nearby curtains, where a child looked
for visitors. an inner chairwoman such interior business while most deny their
importance—this too is expected.
I passed a church. I entered, said a
prayer, and gazed into those wicks burning—as surrounded by wax. I thought of Descartes;
I wondered by way of passivity; we often dispute our academia as a means to status—as
opposed to true wrinkles.
