Saturday, March 6, 2021

Life Becomes Moments of Retrospection

 

mother was softer then. it felt like pudding then. too many punctures to smile. an inadequate fever a closing of planets while a bit dejected. if love was sweet such dependent voids as trying to unravel an understanding. such aeipathy aside metanoia appointed to sadness. but inner happiness, so self-possessed, it hurts to maintain it. upon a margarita eating limes a little salt for flavor. seated closer or asking questions, “Is it right to feel good?” so aloof to it such an abandoned angel, as left to roam earth. but Love knew science as raw chemistry she kept thumping his heart. morning came quickly, a set of new persons, while speaking in pleasantries. so far away, up in San Luis Obispo, while pondering old history. I catch traffic, moving in a daze, a bit hazy over affairs. (things we ignore, inconsistencies screaming, a soul must be present.) I touch a note in blue sunshine upon a hectic encyclopedia. flavored for perfection while disbelieving perfection or admiring perfection. nearby ear-meters or interior ghosts if but a bag with correct answers. (I liked Love it was peculiar but Love was too many anxieties: hassling over beauty, a bit sick with gifts, plus, a few habits. those years at it, as adjusted to it, with brains increasing intensely.) a long walk into a Japan neighborhood so many symbols; or roaming Chinatown, a bit to a feeling, organized by abjection. but back to Los Angeles a bit meatier where souls act like hungry hyenas. an old friend, he knew the facts, we agreed to treasure a secret. a little snake-medicine a bit more candescence while women are most circumspect. it could be good or hanging from a wire while souls play ventriloquists. so spoiled now-a-days, so polyamorous, while trying for dependent love. a gate in the distance, a hundred palms, while we know for design: a dear soul a gorgeous feline a bit guaranteeing a frenzy. like ownership happened like it means our thoughts instead of behavior indicative of itself. the last clock, more conditioning, or a young woman’s aura. I must exit at such an ingrown nail, or faces flashing in fury.        

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...