subterfuge is unspoken

Another nonsensical loss to the sophistry of my malignant romance. There is this indignant inlay of impressions into ideas, or ideas into ideals. Either way, I cannot seem to sip the shoreline of this undercurrent of (mis)understanding. I keep missing it and masking it as that turn that followed that take, that tocktact of some countdown I can't quite quip for user-friendly functions. Instead, I work against gravity and present to the court my case on this confusion of corporeal and reason. When there are no boundaries how can the light break in and inset your way? If reason pares away the imperial ways of empirical ennui, why sense the senses sending me into the contemplative quandary of how I fall short yet again? These As and Bs are vultures to my face value and I think faster than feel to notice no one knows the nows of proper opportunity.

So if you were to ask, I would confess that you don't exist in my exit because the boxes are filled with my own imagination of some things I wish I could have as their face value. For the mistake was met at that onset when I said romance. My vernacular is not approachable to those ways you find such normalcy in, rather I reinvent those rituals of which I was nothing but a pawn. The noun, you ask, is nothing to fear because it is less singular than the lone eye. But it's lonely here, missing again that chance to change such chicanery.

inching to feet.

There is an inch in me that yearns to be a foot. Deep and delicate at once, wide and wise to the wind, the receptive field internally is quite absent to this external force. Or not so, because the truth supersedes nothing when the day's lies tempt so tastily. When I am nourished by wrongness and take no recollection of the peril, the inch in me becomes in, cut shorter still. Lately the three-squares are building towers of torment around my peace, so although my peace is my piece, the climb out into an aseptic world is germane to the fall in. I do not know what will be portrayed and I do not know who I will betray, but I do sense my mouth requesting nothing but the day's leaven. Everything else complicates my understanding. Here the lines are blurred to my perception of good and bad. If I cannot discriminate can I feel no pain? If I cannot decipher can I rejoice in fortune? That is why I want to be a foot, deep. I want to plunge more away and towards all that is and is not me for just one glance of your set-up. If I knew your floor plans, I may not break down the walls.

Broken walls in this sea of the inch. It is all in one dimension.

when you find it too easy

The decided nature to emphasize wrongful choices as other wrongful doings take place is a truth to the high road onto easy street. This high way is an oxymoron before it even comes to be because inherent in the judgment of that which is right to be right and wrong to be wrong is an involuted, unsubstantiated train of reasoning. I can't let on, facially, that I adhere or admit one box or the other, for I feel the guilt of separate systems of belief in my short course of morality. When it is too easy to be cavalier, then it is time to recalibrate the intention thermostat. My discerning is stronger now that I see the ease of others [and myself] to commit to a claim that holds spite in the central canal. I refuse to submit to a title that is less about encompassing the complexity of mine and other's lives but rather used to sharpen a tongue blade that slices off insult and injury. Until labels become artistic in manifestation, I prefer to work out of ideas.

When it is too easy to belittle the bemoaning of concrete pains, then it is far over due to sink into deep understanding to save, if even possible, a shred of mutuality. The celebration of life is neither taking it nor saving it. Rather it is being with it, as if it has no other moment but the potent one in space and time formally recognized as the now.

two pillows and a destination

I christen this quickly, as I have a previous engagement with my nocturnal side. This time never comes soon enough, yet leaves well before it is asked to part. I pray I am present enough to let the neurotransmitters in my retina fire freely and without fear of the forthcoming light. When there is light, the process shuts down. How needed I know my time to exit confusion is, for I am one step out now looking back at my blindness. Although I cannot champion retrospect completely just yet, I can slowly severe still the by-products of my hurried nature. Maybe in the future, either near or distant, I will separate time and space, God and man, and look to myself as an inhabitant of all of the above. Then I can watch as each unfolds slowly.