The mental is the grip—social
outcasts, cultural incidents; gods sent back, growing into a never machine, at
the outskirts—trying to remember—what it felt like to laugh. We tug at
exaggeration, it has become an art, like telling or selling the mathematics of
eternity; it can’t happen, while wildness makes sense, most tired of the
losses; shoveling nonsense, big time disrespect, like winning is assigned to a
few; one thousand that sways, to hate for no reason, enlove with making
suggestions. To hustle for leaves, so green in the middle, at a level envied by
giants; the raw algebra, the misspelled evening, the tales told in silence—so silken,
so much to believe, at measures to congratulate the underdog. I hear as they
ask: “What’s being said?” Go further, bend the winds, the stone is pure jasper.
Like another, writing with meaning, at an illness, so long to finally ask for
assistance; never was the language!
