It cuts into my breath in a dank way.
It has no beginning, I remember.
It could be just a foggy chill
but I don't recall its arrival.
It makes for
a small room sense of space,
the acceptance of limited movement,
something inferred as tragic
but no one speaks directly about it.
There is this absentia and wait.
It then rallies
to make some furious sense.
Maybe it comes from a recollection
but unclear if it was seen or spoken.
A false feeling of trap doors
is all around.
They keep opening
but no accompanying
or appropriate sounds follow
to reinforce the experience.
It is a quality but also a vacancy.
It is a compelling feeling
of being pressured,
followed by short fuses for thoughts
then periods of languid waiting,
like liquids that travel
overbearingly too slow
and feel muddy
yet quicksand inescapable.
There is a longing for other parts,
more spirited parts
of being self-possessed
to be engaged and remembered.
There is this, as an addiction,
held as a possible aversion
loudly and repeatedly
pronouncing itself inside
but still without words.
The messages run at me
as to run over me.
I can't hold them as thoughts.
They just blow by
then they break out into words,
muffled and distant by now
in the yell back overheard.
Some place else inside me
must do this work and tell me.
My death is an endless ribbon
coming out of me
by these slights of whispers.
I can only attempt to shock myself
to end the lucidity
of this labor as a confounding
sweetness of pain.
Who is a gut of these feelings?
No comments:
Post a Comment