idle hands, feet, grow out of my heart
then for a second stop, stop
the inevitable beating stops and my brain rests, rests somber
slumber
and there is a pause in the flow.
back to the beginning, to the infinitely designed path, to the humble origin that rests soundly upon tainted toes: and i am no stranger to reconnection. to the skips of beats and the incandescent rhythms, candescent, clandestine. as long as it's kept under the red hot heat, under the table and in the controlling amorphic shadows that can't tell you why it's happening, but that it's coming, and hurry up (hurry up). i've been listening to those voices. and they've been listening to the unrelenting
Boredom that is neither meek nor daunting, but still: so still that boredom is its own Boredom is a bore itself, and i am boring, dull
yes, dull, anyone can dull a person make if they question their own idea of dullness and it's true, many people take many forms, i watch those figures change daily against the light and know no true soul or person other than myself, and then myself is an ever-changing condescended sense of self that i do not have, do not want, never made, unless it was convenient (and convenience is a thing of a question too, what isn't--
what is.)
and then i know you from the face to the hand to the palm, from the eye to the hand, and it's a magic convolution that is so inverted a particle of light would not break it through and the knowing is a stalwart and the forgetting is a firm plant in the ground by two feet so willing to walk forward they move backward with the same easiness
so let's talk about the people who have been left behind, taken for granted; there have been showers upon showers of the bleak and the darkened air and betrayal is a two-way mirror kind of ordeal that you've got to question like you question the oncoming of a sneeze: will it come or won't it. because i still think about you quite daily, can you imagine, because you think about nothing (of importance, anyway- and you say parenthesis, dear, are a revolving door: take note of what you've said before and reprocess, process, photographic child) that doesn't come to you in a flash of self-important light, self-imposing, and i am blessed with a good sense of morale from which you dawned a so heavenly blessed light. there were times i will not mention where i was so involved, so engrossed that the only hope i had was your rough sense of propriety and i never loved people so much it overcome me and i never let go of people so easily that my hands are ever free
if they were, i'd feel it, and i have yet to
and then you dig yourself back into your shallow hole where you're not breathing or moving forward, but again rethinking the importance of life and things and it's so endless that a ring does not in present tense compare to the circling you do, lord god silly boy, the hole has miles wrapped around it, and the world is again in debt to the bargaining you do. and i was Real saved, really out of it, because i was more terrified of him than i was of moving forward, than moving on than just letting it go, let it go.
down to the moment, to the second, to the exact rejoining of two beings so concrete, i thought, solid matter did not compare, there has only been turmoil and discretion and the letting down of a faith so deep, so deep, so religious, so deeply god damn religious, that i cannot make a step without first considering the consequences of the most minute and downtrodden actions. the nothingness that stems from, grows from
you think i don't see it, i do
i am inside of it as much as any other person whose ever tried to connect with it and found themselves swallowed whole.
now, i am not a lover of the And, but not included To: Arts, and the many patrons who follow. i never loved a thing that wasn't first sought after and then imposed upon, that wasn't willing to converge itself in its own derived destiny, everything is
if a person puts pen to paper and wields it.
i ask for simple change and it doesn't come if i don't ask it, and i ask it loud, and it doesn't come if i don't make it and all things are if you are and can be, i can be, and there is nothing so fearsome as the aloneness of time and of space and of the question, not afraid of its own self,
when are you going to be your own person?
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