.

Eliminating the fun from my day

Because I’m afraid of giving off energy,
Afraid that my vibes will spill out bacteria
On the veranda,
.
Or anywhere else, a lot of these
Sacred spaces
.
In this sterile land, a
Land where they try,
And try,
And
Still
Hardly
Get anything right,
.
I think of you like a stingray
Of golden pigment,
Your eyes splaying out to the sky forming
A girl’s intuition and
I just know that human beings were put here to confuse each other,
And make music smiling with lip stick stockings
Wearing the wrong clothing to the inside of mind orbit.

That time I was laying my head on the banister there,

I needed that so bad,
And then you fudged up the process
By asking if I was alright
And now I don’t trust you
To walk us through this life
By parking us in front of the TV
And making us just like everyone else,
.
I want something that cannot be named,
Like an undeniable force
Unfolding across my face as
Earth has mercury to
Fire it out of formatted sensibility

Sometimes I feel like I’m on an assembly line —

I don’t have to tell you.
You see the race in mad drifts
Of
.
Temporary assemblage,
People panic coated and
This
.
Is why
They
.
Band together, to numb
The ache of quicksand.

Eventually, the question has to come up,

Be posed: is the world within we live, righteous?
A man is righteous, I think,
.
If he’s able to be patient with his fellow,
And coax from there all the goodness,
End a person’s pain.
.
And in this pain’s exodus
There is the human connection
Like a widespread feeling of skin and fruit,
Which when pervading will seem the essence of life,
Though actually just a privilege, something
Only truly impossible once it is gathered.
.
It is a deliverance,
An opportunity to notice the power in others,
Which of course boggles the rational mind
When juxtaposed with the prior theory
Of the proletariat’s savagery.

I want to shine my christened mind toward people who need it — I want to take in everything, breathe the rain from the weather’s control panel. And if I shout, maybe it will be something like the sound of glee, like if a dance were to take only wave form, and the effect would be like rain on the lapping petals of man… I mean, you don’t know until you try. And I mean, maybe you were just getting off work or whatever, because you had to work that day, you were kicking up dust on your kickstand, I am that dust, ostentatiously undivided before or after the one thing that has ever truly happened.

Then it was the heads

Like jugs spilled over
Pouring in at the time of trap
And now when people are artificial,
Wedged in “time” and non-privy to divine elixir
.
Of immortality,
How appropriate I should dive deep
Into the lake most avoided
To find toxins
Or scabs of Mother Earth
Trying to cleanse herself.

The sky unzips its sweater, now,

Creating a haze I knew all along
To be part and parcel with my lymph node dynamics,
Come to tire
.
The caloric valves of the man-made forest
We drive by in petroleum apparatuses,
Hoping not to hear the music
Assembled stoically by the young trees,
The naive fruit doomed to a life sequestered by cell walls
.
When it is still fear the primary galvanizer
Of humanity, zipping
By on freeze omens.

Per the script,

It all ties together:
The talking,
The entrance into the apartment,
The light refracting off shoulderblades
And the endless trail
.
Of fantasy,
Or the mind’s need for fantasy
When having broken
The clouds’ rhapsody
Is a sun-scorched reality:
Of us all governed by fear,
Of seeing plain as day
That this IS improvisation,
This is not divine providence
In a candy coating sung into crystallization.

The thought took hold of me slowly,

As it can only to the drugged,
During welterweight spring in Bloomington, Indiana
Where words pour out of the assembly hall doors,
And you have to sweep them, supervise them,
They are unemployed, it just took
A telepathic message from my mother back home
Bought cheap by Judas under angered power,
Clouds, My safe, cushy life
Took egalitarian form and I just thought,
If I just don’t want anything bad,
If I never want anything that’s wrong,
I will be fine,
.
And then the thought of what I wanted
Took papered, sparrow shape
And fell
Under the wisping hint of wind
And I was taken by that before me,
Never to be the same again,
A walking taxonomy flood.

After self-indoctrinations

On paper cups of ice and cola
On early Wednesday nights,
.
An endeavor upon which
The thoughts pull YOU
To their own happenstance outlay
Of watchdog hope,
.
The state of being right
In which you take everything seriously
Only obviates the need for further rightness,
Need bred from need’s fulfillment.