one can become smothered by obligation, mental mazes, even sexuality. roads into crevices sweltering silence ruminating in sickrooms. the interviewer is inquisitive. one opens her vault. everything said becomes by hauntings. (I was young, blank of mind, much was being written, created, while one must avert personal atrophy, or emotional stunting.) a child functions like an adult. childhood has been uncentered. a nine-year-old is considered an old spirit. words become function or interesting notions by a combination of words, a meditated sentence, becomes a voice.
(I would watch like wilting feeling souls welted.) upholstery was music the kitchen was dismissals, occasionally, insects would get by. or walls made noises, something rich people seldom hear, there were roaches in the interior. (they might creep out. lights might go off. we’d boil water in pots. if but to take a bath.) many miles later, in a soul inside-out, we read of multiple levels—as found in humans as designated discomfort we’d learn to apply jargon to our condition. or rain hit harder while tile unraveled as but to place pots around the apartment.
to meander is to locate memories while it’s obvious most cannot relate. a man did a presentation on Jim Crow, he was but one in his class, the room was so silent. harder feelings or a Latina woman as she spoke unravelling deep deadening silence. such conversation is hectic. most see color but rather not discuss color, even people of color. nights on to attraction—where it came from—while I need you in order to feel worthy: as a candle needs a wick, as gray sage needs a lighter, or many souls suffering freezer burn!
it seems normal for one, it seems intrusive to another, we become offended by such indifference. as in any topic, any reality, to learn about deeper shallowness. but something is being said, or something is being neglected, while I watch behavior. one will know the watching, perform for the vigilant, while resenting one for watching. we dislike self-consciousness. it’s but always present. this becomes a reason to adore lighthearted souls. (as a man carries his riffle, he kills his bear, he stuffs it as a trophy.) so similar with each other, we find a great person, for whatever reasons, we try to keep that person. as a sapling so humble such memories we can’t summons; like mother’s behavior or those first two years with father or reasons why something traumatic are seemingly understood. a calming aura or an aggressive smile or a person looking at meatloaf.
I saw a banquet as I passed. I noticed a possessive look, a disdaining look, a woman gave to presumably her mate. another woman was close she was looking at her feet, while the ill-tempered woman walked away; the humble woman drew near, they whispered a few words, smiled, then parted ways, but entering while glancing time to time. (another woman watched.) so peculiar what’s considered normal: the strain in a hyena’s pitch; the tenure in attraction—as social allegro or receptive routines by souls casual about what drives others unstable. but mother couldn’t prepare for this, albeit, I was suited for this, with attraction seeming a light-footed spectacle. passion is kitsch. in a given circle, most all have loved, most all remain friends. but many turn an eye, but need something to such an extent, as too fettered to participate in something casual.
control
is given or shared or destroying—such cold beginnings such rare beginnings
while we cleave to our beginnings.
