what happened when the nipples opened
There are pina coladas to be drunk and bikes to be ridden, asses to be sculpted and restless legs to be settled. Drums to be pounded. Backhanded compliments to be driven back over nets, bugs to be eaten out of those nets, and clarity to be achieved.
Sing it, Yoda, yes we must let go of what we fear losing. Bars are closing and the sewage is rising. A man still can be upstanding.
I used to think I could know everything some day—still with some buried knowing that I could never know absolutely everything, but with enough fancy that I could at least learn all that’s contained in the foundation of the coliseum.
Earthquakes happen and things shift, even things rooted deep and never can everything be known, not when so much more keeps happening.
This stunned my brain a few years ago and turned it into dirty hermetic whybotherness. What a field of pansyhood and resignation. Where to begin and how to keep going and why bother writing another stupid poem that at root is merely a reconfiguration of another. Why bother researching the origin of language and all its dendritic needling outward and forward and so on.
Somebody has to or that pond is gonna get grimy. Even this woe-is-me/I is old news, I know. Sometimes I just need a dumber but that much more rigorous motor. Where is the clarity, Auntie?
This is my happening and it's freaking me out. And then all the animals turned into strawberries ticking their lives away.
What are my coordinates now? Still caught in the potholder, I think; i.e., bad flowers still emit odor, but there is visible pensee happening in loud music boiling up in the planet’s ring.
Sing it, Yoda, yes we must let go of what we fear losing. Bars are closing and the sewage is rising. A man still can be upstanding.
I used to think I could know everything some day—still with some buried knowing that I could never know absolutely everything, but with enough fancy that I could at least learn all that’s contained in the foundation of the coliseum.
Earthquakes happen and things shift, even things rooted deep and never can everything be known, not when so much more keeps happening.
This stunned my brain a few years ago and turned it into dirty hermetic whybotherness. What a field of pansyhood and resignation. Where to begin and how to keep going and why bother writing another stupid poem that at root is merely a reconfiguration of another. Why bother researching the origin of language and all its dendritic needling outward and forward and so on.
Somebody has to or that pond is gonna get grimy. Even this woe-is-me/I is old news, I know. Sometimes I just need a dumber but that much more rigorous motor. Where is the clarity, Auntie?
This is my happening and it's freaking me out. And then all the animals turned into strawberries ticking their lives away.
What are my coordinates now? Still caught in the potholder, I think; i.e., bad flowers still emit odor, but there is visible pensee happening in loud music boiling up in the planet’s ring.
2 Comments:
The people who bother and do most in this world might be the people who know least the dangers inherent in doing such bothering. And this maybe influences the people who might otherwise not bother to bother limiting the damage done by bothering. Or something.
Your writing is delightful. Keep watching the traffic x
Thanks. I originally began that post with talk of traffic but omitted it because sometimes I bore even myself with it. It still fascinates me insanely though.
That's complex net of bothering. In the end I think the bothering is worth bothering about. Maybe I'm just lazy sometimes.
Post a Comment
<< Home