Sunday, July 11, 2021

Some Room Some Entrance

 

the table reminds me of ether. the carpet is underfoot. a rickety chair knows liberty. I wasn’t located early, I was orientated, I was left behind. knowing others, their skies, their music—it unchains in chains coming backwards. like a foreign man in a foreign country living his foreign life. an estranged man. a quiet, austere, unstable man. to meet with faces, so esteemed so leery so crooked. to waver in faith, to rebuke decency, while needing affection.

 

the table is messy—jelly stains, breadcrumbs, filthy mats. a person watches, a tiny roach crawls, a spider is on the wall. so much an old sofa, an intimate sofa, it has tasted lust, frustration, calming atmosphere.

 

a round table a glass plate, a dove’s intestines. a lamp father bought, left to a woman he jilted, she holds on to his memory.

 

in old areas as ancient souls we conjure up ghosts—we tell tall tales, some come to life, we never know with certainty. we create stories, sagas to live by, we construct communities.

 

left with religion, a palm of power, furious darkened secrets—lies and crafts, drums and tribes, haunted by our nightmares.

 

one asserts happiness, ignores existential anguish, fights hard to manage his worldview. a desperate person, overborne, a soul churning butter—by hand or machine, by heights or dungeons, as long as perception is kept intact—never challenged, more status quo, more terror to cleave to peace.

 

life is innocent, people are unbelief, mastery is for a time. most evolve quickly, laughing in sunshine, healing from parent figures. or smooth in essence, protected from midnight, given to a bit of disenchantment.  

 

it’s simplistic living, dangerous understandings as somewhere in the bayou. things are done just so, rhythm is excellence, we believe in human excellence. in California a person is cynic, skeptic, arranged to ask questions. I come to you ignoring you expecting you to receive me. I stand at a distance, I assert pure objectivity, I’m a purely subjective understanding. it moves differently. we have standards. we need to meet others willing to expend everything. like pavement like honey until mushy and compassionate.   

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...