prophetic conundrum a slip of words a sip of the absurd and humble, weigh a waited turn, not missed but yearned and for those, those who crept in this imagery, contemplated synergy a chemistry begotten misplayed and forgotten. A nursery rhyme for the senile, a one legged hopscotch game gone a mile…replay this in tongues, prophetic conundrum. you sound this familiar, a Familiar Foe. your etymology suits unorthodox, a faded related paradox.
reading poems backwards to find that you’re speaking in tongues and that’s okay cause I slept today. My incubus visits seldom these days but I now understand it’s language. I fear for my sanity when I lock the door, I fear gravity’s playing tricks on me again, an eye for eye and a soul for the win…and I’m sleeping with my remedy, i’m tired of writing depressed poetry. I can’t even tell when i’m depressed anymore. I don’t even want to wander in meanings, here i go again. I’m typing too fast for my mind to approve and I’m not sorry…Okay, i stopped. You know what I really hate, the orange yellow light that tells you to yield or go slower. Frankly, It’s either all or nothing with me and I detest this gray shit. I called mammi last night and told her hi and that i’m okay. then I hung up.
obliged lady murders mind turning red oxygen’s a foreign friend, give your self some time. A rat race remedy never did anyone any good except for the rats. Keep quite as a loud fire truck, keep walking. yes you, you one track minded fuck. it’s days like this you find the dirt on more than just your feet.
“…Art is simply inevitable. It was on the wall of a cave in France 30,000 years ago, and it’s because we are a species that’s driven by narrative. Art is storytelling, and we need to tell stories to pass along ideas and information, and to try and make sense out of all this chaos. And sometimes when you get a really good artist and a compelling story, you can almost achieve that thing that’s impossible which is entering the consciousness of another human being—literally seeing the world the way they see it. Then, if you have a really good piece of art and a really good artist, you are altered in some way, and so the experience is transformative and in the minute you’re experiencing that piece of art, you’re not alone. You’re connected to the arts. So I feel like that can’t be too bad.
Art is also about problem solving, and it’s obvious from the news, we have a little bit of a problem with problem solving. In my experience, the main obstacle to problem solving is an entrenched ideology. The great thing about making a movie or a piece of art is that that never comes into play. All the ideas are on the table. All the ideas and everything is open for discussion, and it turns out everybody succeeds by submitting to what the thing needs to be. Art, in my view, is a very elegant problem-solving model.”
I came with my own lemonade it stings the silly stingy cuts i ran past you gave me. I owe you nothing and still, feet burn keep walking and wave at people who look like they’re having a bad day…fervor a dying breed of intellectuals they only care for their egos, that’s besides the point. I came here to tell you things i never said, i came here with my own cup of lemonade to not drink it but to drop it on my lap instead…the thing is, i had to. I was on fire.
We were at the caffe and discussing our favorite quotes, then someone quoted ”withdrawal in disgust is not the same as apathy…” and all of a sudden i found that the trouble in defining myself, the depressed sickly feeling came from refusing to believe that i have been disgusted by you…
morning poetry changes the day ahead. buying wine glasses and making sure my laundry is dirtier before the exchange because there’s an exchange. It looks like someone pressed the pause button outside and my room is for aging, sometimes it’s the other way around. I’m in the in between, changing my numbered self for other numbers. Changing my love for one to an indifference. Subsequent of these plays and lack of weight, weight to a word…there is no weight to words but this is just me lying.
i will not sympathize, i am ms.goody goody i am this written word on a paper and am so empty, with this glass half full and their eyes, they wander. distilled tears of wisdom, let me focus on my hands. my mind with my hands, my heart with my throat. and these sleeves…these sleeves have been dirty this whole time.
sitting behind your eyes familiar thoughts wave their fingers in your periphery. when i think of you i feel like an idiot, i’m into myself there’s no time for this and still i’m sitting, not quite me but someone i lost to be. someone who’s felt unlikely but been tolerated and it’s moments like these that you open your window and you breathe. you wonder why life could be such a tease.
Dated the faded to cut me out restore the poor and bring your money. I fear not your promises but for my times, they’re running. pick up dem shoes out the door keep in mind your mind’s unkind and faithful, like stockings worn thin by time. where did my echo go? i thought i heard it. must be in my soup. my favorite.
I fell apart, i don’t know why. I hit that shit beside my sighs and still the fever came and consoled me. to beg to plead is not my style and figured you’d play half the mile. still my god’s forsaken me.
Trickled down my highest point faking bruises while they were cuts but Pierrot this time was no fucking clown. fought me past my shadows cast and still I sat with taste of grass, yes, my god’s forsaken me.
And i fall, despite all strife, right there…that gross reflection of whom you lost be and I the same. All foreign. Everything. most of them recognized strangers. through foreign eyes and stale thoughts. comforting clarity. this conjuncture has reached its end. the end.