pain is in his aura. words in his
silence. much ado about serious cuts. his body saying grief, anxiety, next to
cultural ink—the rage parents give. i watch under rain, the spigot skies, the
mental faucet, the tears made irrefutable.
he's political, so old and young,
so addicted to society, a brilliant brain, a master of vicarious trauma, filled
with rivers, palming cotton, chewing tobacco. i know his name with regret; i
know not his name with regret; either knowing his name, or not knowing his
name, both cause regret.
don’t imagine me something—above is
a tautology, picked and plucked from Kierkegaard’s arsenal.
the guy is writhing, haggard, with
years between exhaling.
he carries his culture, combined
with their beliefs, so readily losing, so emphatically winning—and today, he
will attend church, he will experience the root of the Baptist.
the prison is perception.
perception is prison. so hard to change perspective. so difficult to believe in
optimism; a soul tries, confronted by reality, told, it works when aligned
correctly; a person worries, something is wrong inside, i must make it work—if not,
the outer reflects the inward, and the inward influences the outward.
when hearing him, it seems too much
to deliver, too great a challenge, a miraculous achievement—tackling sensitive
issues, wrangling with reflection, most reflexive.
