Dolls and stereotypes. To listen as one speaks,
surprised at self, wondering about the subject—trying hard to believe in the
description. Too few verbs, too many adjectives, and not enough accessible
nouns. The white lies, the human memes, the feelings outside: proud to be of
assistance; at a box inside; most are trying hard to believe in the subject—the
matter, the skies, those tiptoeing exosphere; to become human, mandatory
language, no one sees the mountain—right in front of the mountain. The dramatization—as
a living faculty, palms filled with sensorium. The walk to nothingness—it just
falls upon a person, the heaviness, the world, the excellence to hide it; no
one needs to see that, no one needs to hear that, history is redundant. The woman
in the mirror—the man in the shadow—the two claiming each other.
By logic to decide one hates self. By reason to decide
to fix the mind. Easier said than done. One must believe in the formula. One
must believe in Jung. Gaining access
to self, eating language, getting closer, so aloof, feeling counseled. Much concealer. More helium. One might
become a memory. The worse is
inactivity. A woman just wrote a
bestseller. A gentleman just finished
the next groundbreaker. The message
is mocking his soul; the late lunch upset his stomach; the world has always been
small. It stands to suggest—the seas
obey the moon—the excellence of fabrication—the new logic is sensitive, an old
logic, to do as symbols dictate—lost at the gates, typing into Lazarus. The filth
of the smelting—an author of suspension—the final tale; so microwavable, so
much geranium, making titanium blackholes.
