Beyond the frequency and the pull, the overlooked parlors of daily breadth even out the flayed ledges of a supercharged pilgrimage towards a being that only feeds off of another’s vulnerable designation. Not much is left of either’s accomplice, and the summit has grown fruitless and flat. Style may not be resilient, but it deserves credit for stirring the lowest ripples on the aerial maps. Will this be the turn-on that trumpets the tears of the traveler? The pitty is ripe in blues and grays, yet that vast reminder keeps the rest of the regiment from falling back. Somewhere inside of this image, the dark violence is churning. To my next residence, you may find me tethered by an umbilical chord. With the orbit in full bloom…I no longer fear the signal of a pareidolic collapse.
Mean to me…all is joyfully officious…the skirts are out…I forgot my socks and stunk, and blistered upon the flattops of the burning gravel…and the soft fur would ever remain parted and black. There were no fleas, ticks or buzzards. You felt flimsy being carried back to the nest. But at least we were finally done and the trap door slammed beyond invented cobwebs and the earth skinned its knees, and the sky emptied its bowels and the verbs moved all to tears who were impressed by irreverence and the elastic snap of the piercing silence that swings beneath the lobe of the ear. Now I clench my fist and dip my right cheek down to meet the rough circle of the bitten scar. The screen is clung to by tape, yet the wind confronts us unabated. There are leafy green weeds that attach to the patio like ornaments to a tree. Their vibration is indistinguishable from the mortuary door that drags against the threshold, merely two quick miles past the sticky overlay of the whispering chasse. But I still hear your bell and I can still wrap myself in the name staked upon the allelic print of your towel. There is a catharsis from self- crime, that happens everyday, until you drag me to a state I cannot repay for coming true. Do not forget your socks or the succussion. The onion tastes different with every passing year. What could I have done with lighter steps and a lucid maze?
I would move on in a heartbeat if memories could be undone….and maybe today would only have prolonged the inevitable aspiration. Out in the brush we had something in common…you heading for home, me waiting in a pit for arraignment. Others would soon be following out of their own, faulty concerns. I had not thought about splitting up until your bell careened as a witness. Two sets of prints were definitely not foe, and toasted fronds worked better than matches. We can reference the birthday in another accord. If you promise to consider the weight of my words…I will set off for feathered branches.
My confidence had been assumed-laying underneath the byline of the worn almanac-from the outset-there have been three main definitions of fluidity. Tactically, I have always been the eldest, when armed with a well-meaning calculator and a flapping strand of a matted nape. And like that, I am committed to the oddest of experiences. Not from travels or tribulations, but from dividing inception into unrequited, equal parts. Fur and food were the logical places to start. Have you noticed the improvement…within yourself…or do I still require the trackings of a sherpa? For your part, I hear they are quite efficient during the lessor months. Skip the rationale and the ascension, there are twelve clean paths that will be the easiest yet to design and to frame. I am a genius, a genus and a genesis. No one should question the whispers-silence smells funny, when looking out at the erratic droplets of a nugatory rain. Inside there is warmth from movement and inspiration from a single bulb. The blanket and the shade are necessarily lost from an era that was overbearing and prim. What is neat and orderly may be kept in other rooms, or within wings that can only predict that they meet the requirement for dressing. The littered envelopes on the floor confirm I have been delivered to the correct address. The stew is never piping, if only the waiter could free himself from a scattering haste, perhaps I would not rattle and the corners of the calendar could be dulled over and over again. But then what would we have to talk about? Answer without reliving the paper cuts –or sort the nonsense under the drip of the shaking pen. Carrots should be crispy enough to fool the new processor but not the origins of a plant and its stem. If I chose a weakened structure, then gravy would seep into the crevices of your key strokes, chasing the frightened appeal of a self-righteous whim. Yet the year of seven awaits us…in all of those unified, square pieces, that seem repeatedly unwilling to spread out or search for an improved position to defend. The outgrowth could be delicious, and varied when finally called upon, but what a shame-most fronds feel it easier to be castigated then nested within the annual eve of pretend.
Always be kind to ANIMALS…for we begrudgingly take our place within the deludes of that WORD that the trail of human behavior continues to earn…thankfully, projection is always on delay, so in the meantime, we are all free to enjoy the decency of having the same opinion.
The hanging glass -a great divide between the drying swipe that peers thru the counterparts’ prism of unrelenting honesty…. and the homesick celibacy that reflects off ourcloudy set of sticky lies.
Out in the street there is silence…and the gaslight remains caustic and blonde.No one to wash out the laundry…relief cannot keep serving the fond.
Someday, I will awaken with a peace that encompasses all…friend…foe…most likely, those who wear both hats. No longer tugged back by a baseline that repeatedly encroaches upon the bands between our patterns…our blood no longer leaks, our streams rush too quickly to overflow…staying one step ahead of the meddling fingers passing fresh fruit thru the cage and the roaring breath that makes our ears howl. To the philistines who store my image to rear their kids and make their fables special, I bow my head in unnatural, furtive ways... watching stodgy notions… that will forever remain a phrase. Wobble off and hiccup my name …for I am close enough to the gates to know that there is salt within the air. This is going to hurt, but confinement does not make my Lord small.
There is no such thing as a bad writer…only the blowhard who is convinced that he is obligated to tell you everything…the porch is a meddlesome interruption of the nighttime sky…
and the polymath who is unsure if it will ever be the right time to share...in a clever flash a constellation straddles a ledge of purpose and sight…
