I hear
in my voice an ear looming upon a whisper. calm winds, gusts of passion, a
crazed man feels so much. in tears of agony, wrenching his gut, they call it
devotional prayer. many pangs to grow, much wilderness to tread, stalking
cosmic letters. observation was unkempt, something taken for granted, I should
write in present tense. enough of that, it was a grim year for a novice man, perceiving
she was young—not in age, more in experience, with an engine for diligence.
many airborne nights, musing upon clouds, we must increase the diction. like an
epiphany upon a rocket crashing into a vassal—indeed, not enough detail, so
cursed, so blessed, to have crashed for compassion. I call it odic, thetic,
metric; an endless soul, dating back to origins, so young, so astute—sharp like
a splinter, piercing like a drill, raveled like a screw. so angular, such
anxiety, scratching at flesh. the pride of a man, his soul controlling her, she
wants to be all he reaches for; pure aeipathy, cataphatic, religious,
anti-religious, on the brinks, insatiable love. neatly atheistic slumber, definitely
agnostic, sunk so dearly into everything he wishes for; notwithstanding, feminism,
notwithstanding, independence, notwithstanding, lust, fire, lovers, wrath, notwithstanding!
many letters say nothing, life was a vignette, I know not the properties. I presented
my eyes, as to see geometry, such mathematical flesh. I think of ladies,
reading magazines, picking out wedding dresses; to marry at a church, to make
vows, to witness before an audience. I have said nothing. her soul has said
nothing. I am certain, we know nothing. I whisper again, a convergent man, with
excavation seeming unsteady.
