Compressed so
out-of-routine, or maybe so severely – I’ll never extract
you.
But my misanthropic
parody survives, and wish to touch some surveillance of
myself,
hidden in you. Only to
deceive myself into talking myself into[to]
maybe [en]countering
some whole – but I’m not lashed, though whatever fury
sparks from fingers,
these strangers, whatever loss in triumph, howevermany
morasses I must wade
through, half-determined… Play the outburst
lost to numerous others,
like echoes down my supine spine until erect.
My imperfections kiss my
adequacies on one cheek, but no kisses for perfections –
life lost by no one’s
hand. Simple encouragement dementia, reification-void.
I thought the sphere had
broken like crystal so my feet bled. I thought
peering at walls with
sharp objects made finality hazy, if not uncomfortable.
Straddle this living
thing, given more life through my straddling – then fall
and crash, not
gracefully, but hopping up a bloodied mess just to ask,
wiping blood and anger
from my face: from what have I begun?