I
have few memories, mostly, blankness, parts to puzzles. roads are paved in
unclarity. completeness is fantastical. wholeness is a mighty claim. to feel
gathered, brought together, pieced with certainty, seems like phantasm: a
wilderness beneath activity, a dream inside of a dream, like reaching for a long
off horizon. I have few memories, as complete, detailed, undeniable clarity:
like aside a box, next to a kitten, waffles wafting by scent. mostly, an
understudy, a little more wit, sameness, nonetheless; smelling fumes, as
experience, elbow deep in symbols; making images, creating tone, thereby,
shifting moods; some delight in agony, some creature borne to mistakes, so
many, clarity is foggy. if to blame one, would seem infinite regression, with a
terrible interruption; as trying to locate its root cause, trying to understand
where it went wrong, realizing error has been with us—from start to finish.
many rapid items, set in motion, combining memories—as right before time, with
time in existence, fossils denoting elements, oceans drying completely; those
memories are inaccessible, blinking at moments, estranged from hereness. days
are occupied, mapping is obsolete, feelings enlarge sight—moving delicately,
sensing sound, asking for fruit—to eat, to live, to sing, to dance—like creatures
of skies, like rabid ancestors, dating back by necessity.
