It drives me and it draws me, bursting through with
burning needs, this third arm, reaching out from under my nose, with no
excuses, no reasons. Me, alluding to hidden agendas, to save face. I hear my
mouth say what it says. Embarrassment, thinly shielded by chin lifting
arrogance. Who is this, who reaches through, hidden from my senses, lunging and
barbarous in the action of my deeds? Not ever to know what starts it or
completes it. Not to know from where it comes or goes. It, hungrier than I,
whenever the feast. I am captive, never to meet this creature, who takes for
itself through me, who gives me no purpose, leaves no bloodstains, launches no
stares. Clueless, I am caught in the eye of its passion. Brazen through the dust
of my circumstance. Smacking me in the face with timeless moments. Blurring me,
looking for a reality floor to land upon. Daring me to stand up and take
another blind hit. Me, sacred as sour, dulled into an indifferent fool. It says
its lines, does its deeds, where-I-who-would-take-to-understanding cannot hear
nor see. Who is this, who is left on the outside as though I were saying this
to you? Feeling pedestrian and numb and yet claimed as an appropriately upstanding
community member, wearing my lost-ness with ease, when this that touches
through me weaves love with its contact, then gone, while I am left to settle up
with the differences. It lives off the backside of what I make of life, pierces
through me, as a mule of behavior. I fuss and fury to no avail. Dumbly playing
into its next deeds, a blindspot rogue taking me to task, I am a bystander
witness to this blindspot love. It dreams yet I have only faint feelings.
It loves and I am cocoon, an apprentice, as if a
pawn, serving as the emissary, messenger, projection or fool. This metamorphosis, misnamed as life, is a
self-generative shadowy hush of strike and recoil and I, a three dimensional
mannequin to the medium of its embrace, lovingly though vacantly sipping the
liquid of this, within my blindspot love . . .
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