let the blame fall to the soul in
anguish and fleeing—the anxiety of the mayhem, the bold blue moon, the sun with
its sad-shine. the pain of the outsider, the injustice of the relationship, the
fair gray skies; so asunder, the beige-brown eyes—looking like deserts—the way
we learn grace; so forced, the waterfall lost its sprout, the grasshopper holds
the crickets in derision.
much a machine, needing emotion, so
stranded, so bold, so cursed—to have adored, sight to the basement, so uncomfortable—it
felt fantastic! making waves into the corridors, turning the long maze,
arriving at a lake filled with sorrows; the cold wires, the high fences, the
talkative weeds—racing to feel hell, no judgement provided, the cake at the
parade, the clown in his tuxedo;
so uncalm, so taciturn, the left
side of politics; so liberal, so free, so non-intrusive—without a need to force
tenets and concepts into a soul’s throat; something sicker on our part, we
endorse a pro-choice nation. we deviate. we blanket an agenda. slavery is a
scratch away. let the blame fall to the soul in anguish and fleeing—his mind,
his patience, the alligator in the vestibule;
made to perish, even with pride, as
believing—someone always must perish! living lies, each in balance, loving the
inconsistency—made invisible, the invincible identity, so fluid, whacked into
oblivion—to have loved like puppies; much further into angst, so close to discomfort,
to imagine a person would act that way. shunning everything, the soul mocking
endeavor, the ventriloquist
frozen in mid-sentence. so bold
with life, many coincidences in life, the accounts are close knit. such
familiar behavior—so baffled—feeling like a harlequin; many needing this level,
to have ingested this level, roamed the cacti and hilled the lion just licking
its paws. wasting time, always a reason, looking at a damn phantom. it was assuredly
me, a distorted creature, wanting what
a soul in congress might expect:
the decent conscienceness, unconditional consideration, the right to feel pride
in the family. like a dear problem, with a flowing, promiscuous river, the
right to do what minds determine. the stakes are lower. we don’t have to answer
before conservatives. the ranks determine the expectation. let the blame fall
to the soul in anguish and fleeing—races,
laughing with children, pretending
adult-life isn’t foggy and gray with hellish ambitions. living my lie,
uncomfortable with my fib, wondering if honesty helps the man in the mirror;
many are surviving, consciencely damp, the black lagoon filled with platypuses—like
filthy creatures, bathing in holy water, so wild at the place—in its humility.
