Carrying cargo. A blank glare. Never to dredge too much up. Somewhat a boxy feeling, radiant chaos. The skies are in pigtails. I’m still a child. I was late in life and developed an occasional stutter. The data is overwhelming. I’ll find time to sort through it. In part, it belongs to The Condition. I no longer see just trees. This is a triumph. And I still enter a blizzard for a kind soul. So much laboring, an interior anti-lounge, atomic mesmerism.
In those woodsheds, buried inside, one prominent face, one interjection, one ghost. Such Parousia, by no greater effort, while filled with works.
Carrying cargo. It seems to be a mission. With intention made negotiated.
Looking at self, akin to an allegory. So tender the final catharsis. Those country personas. Those city swamis. Trying to sit closer to closure. By greater efforts. Putting soul to plough. Taught to look back regardless. At once, disqualified.
Such voltaic flickering—many more pages—a Cajun diary. I never located totality of existence. Some are enjoying splendor, winged, chiseling sculptures. Explicit in texture, by pith of passions, fabric flame, wrapped in subtle magnetics.
