I’d like to
congratulate you for not going crazy. maybe a self-address, however, we know
better. the engine needs assistance. the anguish never stops. I’d like to be
modest, but it devastates. I was writing a project, it became overwhelming, I
swore it was better than anything ever written.
it’s noon. we know
the drill. I’m tipsy, trying to write non-theatrically, trying to reach the
reader—so, it’s plain until it soars.
an old friend took
to needles. another to liquor. another to whatever is required. nonetheless, we
speak to metaphysics, losing brains, getting closer to a split reality. needing to say sorry. this is its
aftermath—for frightening you, disrespecting you, for trespassing—into a space
having nothing for each other.
the transmission
is mushing, aches are sour, in a situation forcing a smile. like famous
salutations, or sick appeasers, with hell naked before our third eyes.
I knew passion.
Love was compelling. it was never an issue. I was writing a project, life was
animated, I became a cartoon.
so morose. much a
diamond. nonreality meshes with actuality. we’ve gone vague, but what have you,
in a world drifting through itself?
Love was mental,
in a select sense, her thoughts transport energies. Love was pregnant, I see an
opaque dress, something covering her whole person. we watch so closely,
preventing something threatening, while, I ponder, why is this the enchilada?
I was never alive,
albeit, flying, with damages accruing.
I opened a shoebox
fiddled with an ink cartridge walked into a diary. sky became bedsheets, earth
was supernatural, her being was inside iron screaming—as touching by vibration,
released, disappearing with remnants of professed affection. we’re getting into
physics. we’re asking the mind to bend. we’re exiting complete safety. the streets were filled with poles,
pavement, icy, aloof, noisy, nosy people. pain was beautiful. mother visited. I
conversed with darkness. I pause to take a sip. nothing major. just an iced
margarita.
years after one
episode, still infused by memories, sullen at points, or alive strewing
something superconscious.
valves flood the
universe, connections, it seems we treat this as a secret—unless on the inside,
given to certain elements (people), its hermetic nature is for sale. I’ve
sought since grade school, running amuck, most are interested in my eyes. it
became common context, common hermeneutic, while socially seeking an exegesis
on energies.
seated in
undulations. knowing to know others is to know self. we walk into a kitchen.
