I know what it feels like to suppose existence. I know what it feels like to conclude a poem. I call out to leopards and lions searching out revelation—such long-distance reach; rain augmenting life, salt to cause pain, sugar to cause a smile. In resistance, a nugget is discovered. It causes
confusion. Blame it on suffering souls. (The opposite of what’s mandated.) Life means much or little or it vacillates; storm in, storm out, torches into dynamite, seated in confusion—to wonder, surprised by answers, fumbling in disguise, grounded like neat pepper. A bag of melancholy—
wild voltage, having an experience; to exert a conclusion, to know, it all churns. Whet to begin, years later, eager to give it back. On to praising what I can’t fathom—a wild admission—sewing skies, surmising with fervor—rose of the living, daisy of the dead, getting just enough to know
there’s more. I never saw it before, so close to feeling it, to know suffering is veiled by power. A song beneath a chimney. A leaf gaining meaning. Turquoise thunder. Marooned exposition; such courage to existence, to dig in daily, some more revealing than others. I thought is showed
confusion. Life shows uncanny disconnection, while remaining sequential. In all the loving, souls forget each other. To need certain, disqualifiable affectation; to expect unconditional acceptance … an intense love, made mutual love, else, love is with disqualifiers. On to what I
fathom—the murky lakes, the gracefulness of swans, the aesthetic of changeability. An artistic slant, crossing into touches of madness, to adore a certain feeling, to hebetate parts of sensations, confused over its introduction, if meant to evaporate. It seems life offers various addictions. One
adores x, one adores y, another adores x and y. Such mesmerization. Such reality to think about; to imagine life as one great pressure; to do good or bad, affected by goodness, damaged by badness. Immeasurable cogitation. No one could get so close! A deep illusion. To nudge self. To
look into a mirror. To presume mind, reality, are unreal. Some grand artificer inside—as playing piano, pausing to blast a trumpet, full of reality—as misperceived, belonging to its nature.
With each reality comes misperception. So grand a conclusion; asserting—no one knows full-on reality. No one exists like that. If I touch my arm, that’s real. If I gain a perception of life, it’s real as it appears to senses. Such terrifying philosophies. How am I not real? Indeed, something is perceived, in the back of what is said, that might be reality. The argument is asking: How do we know reality, so often wrong about perception? We continue to let self … off the hook.
