a sudden slant of light falls across a room of cobweb clutter and i am reminded of a meeting. of its insignificance replaced with light-etched memory. a sudden slant of light falls to reveal the volatility of a moment. a figment of evaporation leaving behind light-etched memory. almost tangible. the significance of it remains as a smile cornered on a deathbed in a room of cobweb clutter.
If it rains
I will feel longing:
it reminds me of you.
you, who taught me
just how much
I enjoy walking
in the rain
Last text message stamps that turn from time to day to date watching fiction fabricate where love profession became kiss-sealed fate. Determining if terminal velocity has been accelerated passed at a change in change in distance greater than gravity while existing unknowing with respect to and with no respect for
space. A little bit too tipsy to the point of topsy turning. A little bit too little: a tiny chunk: a minuscule nibble. A finger in to test the waters, the temperature of misplaced tea. The temperature of a tepid day with higher than bearable levels of humidity for individual hairs to stay put in organized chaos. Chaos so chaotic it can only be described by a law, the second one, it’s fundamental thermodynamic the heating the cooling trying to contain to construct to solidify the abstract into the concrete so concrete so rigid so indifferent unemotional.
I have goosebumps patterning my flesh that tell me the temperature is too low. I have pupils that dilate when moving from day to dark. My heart races as a clock ticks counting down. My breath is heavy matching quickened footstep sounds. I have a feeling in my gut that tells me this is not quite over. I have a feeling in my gut that tells me this is not quite over. I have your voice in my head saying “To Be Continued” followed by a month-long ellipse read as a worn out question mark. I have your voice in my head in the silence of this room. I have the silence of this room. I have the emptiness of this room. I have the freedom to rebel, to be remiss, to try to profit, to counterfeit. I have the choice to hold, the choice to steady, and the choice to overflow. To overwhelm, to stand up straight, or to reap what seedy deeds I’ll sow.
I have goosebumps patterning my flesh that tell me the temperature is too low. I have pupils that dilate when moving from day to dark. My heart races as a clock ticks counting down. My breath is heavy matching quickened footstep sounds. I have a feeling in my gut that tells me this is not quite over. I have a feeling in my gut that tells me this is not quite over. I have a feeling that I’ll choose to let that feeling win, as my conscious clear fights off the fog and my patience thickens with my skin.
A many sided centipede who exists in all directions crawled on a wall bound by no sides and settled down for breakfast. When did you know you lost your mind? He questioned sipping stylistic tea. When my many legs became tongue tied, and my heart forgot to breathe. I walked and walked and still I found no thoughts anxiously remaining, so I talked on public pedestals and couldn’t stop complaining. We need a cause, we need a fix, we need a reason and a way. Illogic drawn on poster board depicts unthought that demands to have a say.
His soft soliloquy reflects the moon, a pantomime shadow puppet playing with wind. A pretty piece of palindromey that ends where it begins. A pigmented filament of dewdrop fame holds hopelessness where poems breathe. She picked a phrase with well-chose words to force an end in life’s reprieve. Mishappiness malformed to taunt a tethered wingèd wonder. Breezeblocks burning bayside bridges as wayward ways go asunder. Carthage careens carcinogens, yet erudite elders linger. Picked a peck of picked peppers, yet ten on two he counts his fingers. The punishment of pundits jettisoning just because, is the same as fancy feminists pushing papers, burning bras. I suppose you can articulate just how indifference feels, by skinning yourselves two by two and shrugging off your squeals. Clandestine cloistered communists are cloying to and fro, but Marx’s timid tipping point will be turning years ago. His soft soliloquy reflects repeated for arrhythmia affectless. The moon projecting painted scenes with dimly darkened arabesqueses. A misty mossy happenstance of creatures where they fall. The killer queen who stole her crown forewarned but not forestalled. Blink and blow and blind your beams: the sight is for the singeing. Sopping sipping flopping flipping: an open door not worth unhinging. Blue-battered burning bridges the echo is obtained concretely. An abstract rhyme with blood schemed whisky that coats a love found indiscreetly. I clipped and clopped but still I found coalescing doe-eyed dreaming. Read forwards backwards side to side produced intrinsic hoped for unplanned theming.
Well-meaning metaphors turned tactless when read between split hairs.
Subjective language’s flimsy foundation: misobscured and hyperbeared.
A muse is blushing: intentions not unclouding down-pointed eyes.
A reader is bored: wordplay availing only undisguise.
Overcomplisimplifications: polar opposites’ portmanteau to a greater power
And here the writer thought she thought of all potential points of pseudofailure