The snail is the dog, moving and swaying, eating red
vines; time to save self, little irritants, like it matters—the stumble, the
path, the elixir, more grass; mirrors of anxieties, far removed, up close, or
in middle of art and freedoms; to free minds, to handle the controversy, many
upset concerning academia. By boxes and dreams the way we settle, the metal we
eat, like asking for survival. So fretted in life, to disrupt another’s,
admitting to it—life is too much. I hope for him what he hopes for me; to scream
where I’ve drummed, like rivers on skies, I’ll be born again. Livid like loses.
Abandoned assholes never left alone. Demanding intimacy. So much a problem.
Just to assert — “He doesn’t deserve it.” Ha!
I loved as best I could. One neat and angry, like see-through
souls. Life continues. It’s always forward. It never goes backwards – that’s
for humans – as looking back, extracting mistakes, leaving well enough alone!
I keep reading. I keep dying. I’m at a space where it’s
irrelevant. Not many are slowing down.
Not many are asking about their part.
