sometimes i wonder if the world has ever been comfortable. we are living in a shotglass, i’ve downed my drink already, you have too. stuck, i’m undecided, i’m taking you to heart, i’m advancing over a puddle. who’s gonna stop me, unplug me ? i ‘ve never fallen in yet.
sorry, i give it out to the world. there are no promises i can’t keep, & no planet more undeserving. i wonder when i first learnt about gravity. i’ve had a rough time coming to terms with my inclines, i’m all hard edges, wanting softness. lonely is the keycard, i’m try’na move in all directions. how to be directionless … how to be fortified …
my thoughts are skywriting, i’m being carried away most of the time. important people tell me things all the time i am inclined to believe them. what is being elevated since i’m constantly travelling with my nose to the earth. my sense of smell is underdeveloped. am i telling myself the kind of thing that is true or only knowable ? what kind of communication speaks clearer than your glossy eyes in hawai’i ?
if lying is self-immolation, telling the truth is the farthest thing from possible. i’m dropping into cool territory, marked specifically from the start, bastardised if i can help it. meeting you is impossible not in one way but many, our epoch is terrifying, there is no exit. it takes an effort to become something. have you ever refused to hear an answer ?
i’ve never said anything i actually mean. i try at every moment but can’t afford it, not time or words enough to communicate exactly my intensity or range. wish consciousness was optional sometimes in a way that wasn’t suicidal. wish i could share my brain or rent it out or swap for a little while. i wish i could join two things so absurdly & completely new that it was unfixable & unexplainable, an anomaly of science & reason.
if buttons are tender i’m a meat cleaver. i don’t believe in sharpness but i believe in the ability to make things dull, which is almost no change at all. dancing skillfully should be an instinct; too scared to know if i’ve got it; catching something almost seems prophetic. only poets go to poetry, everyone else is everywhere, tending to external wounds. if your space is cluttered it can help to make yourself smaller, start the outside getting into you. if i had to bring something to a deserted island i’d probably pick a mouth full of grapes, let them sour on my tongue, turn into wine.
i’m skirting a line of probability, red ink underline. wondering from which direction it came from. i only counted it a few times but know it could be elaborated on. there’s a cloud that hovers over one particular building & i’m wondering what happened there. i mean i know i used to go there & everything but maybe the wonder is about what could have happened. if anyone would see me fall.