loss
and rainbows where two edges meet
orchestras of cellos (purposely out of tune)
shallow gasps manifested in rest notes between the spaces
of off-key melodies
mosquito bites and your suggestion that my blood
must be sweetest but I can't take you as a compliment;
this is not a time for threats, my darling, nor is
it a time for deaths. it is not a time for spaceless thoughts nor for confessions
with political motives under white garments of smiles and spices and seductive
entices
the breath gets deeper even if only for a moment and
then the gasp returns:
the window blinds my glasses
the
windows blind the masses
the
windowblinds conceal the sun from me which hides my sanity and peace behind the
instruments and their voices but it is probably to be found in the rests where
the bars meet each other at the edges, where the silences collide and burn as substances
react to oxygen and oxidized carbon and I don't feel god and that is startling,
it is starting to sound like a long bar of rest
notes
or a mind which deciphers like stars out of their
constellations
out of
their occupations
out of their spheres
like stars unaligned
like lies out of signs in the open blinding sun shining minds sparkling
like water after a chemical synthetic process (like most of our bodies) and my
condescending opinions on all who give in to fabrications and useless surgeries
and drugs to feel
or to stop feeling, or to reverse the effects of
our sadness our misery our traumas and dramas
without seeing them face to face, eye to eye, because
to turn around blindly is
so. much. easier.
