Thursday, December 10, 2020

Juggling Sad Weather

 

days have been lethargic, thus, sluggish—somewhat un-attentive. birds seem but routines beauty seems but a dear chase, existence sounds differently. there’s cake in sorrow, some assert redemption, while we caress a gentle snakebite. anything to feel. any puzzle offering sensation. or anxieties in vogue. symmetry in art or dissonance in prose or cadence in fatigue. if pain is joy, then joy is an anchor, where heaviness is penchants. an estate for humans, a thrill in its breakage, or soft artistry with repercussion. some hook in its chime some dark abasement or surrender anticipating reward. a man isn’t abysmal, but he’s frightened, for he’s been laden several days. he must defeat invisibility. he must acknowledge, if possible, an exact source; such raw flesh such dear avalanche, while most remain distant; by fire of its place or pictureless emotion, or some form given to its inhabitant. to imagine it as a game, or to play another soul’s piano, detached looking for a response to such detachment. (we don’t channel a dear truth, picking up energies become steep terrain.) a palm of sand, a noisy cricket, those hours listening to discomfort. a soul might contend, that soul might feel entitled, if but a need for imposition. (by sad countenance to arrive in space as time seems sluggish those mornings. to light a cigar, put it out, or light it one chance with determination. smoke looks disfavored, coffee is uneasy, while rethinking some chase of time.) not necessarily under siege. not dearly despondent. but unencouraged—where activity is forced. some inner convo, an acknowledgement of self, for many aren’t confirming distinction. (such virescent grass. such garments on our skies. where it’s challenging to break weather.) such fruit with salad or some drink as artificial so deserving in its space. by troublous travail, by agitated articulation, or a need to feel higher. faced by decision, or wrapped in goat skin, such radiance in true contrition. but this is different, it has its location, it wishes to excavate its tomb. it needs to assert boundaries. it desires separate portions. it needs a mythical pillow.    

I’d Save The Reader Years

    The beat becomes sickness. A long crucible—a drilling ecstasy. I was losing focus, feeling forbidden, if to self, if to mirrors. So curs...