Walking in Stasis
Short Clips of Absurdity
Uninhibited mind. Or self. Yes, self.
What is sleep but not sleep?
What is waking but sleep?
The power of my fingers snaps the flowers in two, three, four, five, six, seven parts at least. Each and every flower has this snapped fate.
The eyes are strung up on balloon strings and inflated with helium like they belong up there sky high.
The roots are the veins in the black dirt twisting-tunneling deep, everything deep.
The black bird flapping is a flopping eyebrow in the sky.
The eyes despise what they cannot recognize flying too high. So arise from hiding, you Wise, and help us all to synthesize. Or else tell me why you’re hiding. Oh, you’re not hiding? I try to close my eyes in shame, you put your fingers there and blame me for the way I’ve been the same as all the rest, so scared and lame. So scared and lame. So scared and lame.
The poetry is not poetic. The poetry is—The poetry is not—The poetry towers tower, angular and harsh.
The animals are in the pages of that big, heavy Smithsonian book. That book is another world, to enter.
The steps of the feet clack all over the hard, dark floors of the brain. There are many floors. There are elevators but most people take the stairs.
There is the beating of the sticks against the cranium walls inside. Most of the sticks snap in two and the parts roll over the floors, falling into shadowy crevices.
Bees do no flutter, they buzz; butterflies do not fly, they flutter. Flies buzz and flies fly. Wasps beat. Hornets hard-drone and loud-drone. And there are the needled ends that sting. The butterfly had the silky string but tore it up when it wriggled out of the cocoon. The buzzers go off, the buzzers are crazed.
The sky cannot catch me, but the ocean can cradle me and the ocean can swallow me. The sky can drop me. I reach up to it.
The outlet gobbles up the prongs of the cables.
The prongs of the cables plug up the mouths of the outlet and gag it; or else the prongs of the cables gouge out the eyes of the outlet and blind it. What is the difference between eyes and mouths?!
The face swells, either way!
The walk is to nowhere. No, where? God, tell me where!
The eyes are not red, or sore, or tired, or sorry. Maybe soon they’ll be, but not now.
The intention is to not be pretentious. The intention is to not have a negatively-phrased intention. The intention is to have reason to think it would even seem potentially pretentious. The intention is freedom, but this is not free.
The belch comes from deep within the belly of the beast and is forced out with gulps. The air comes in, the air builds up, the air goes out. The vibrations rattle the ground and crack the dry dirt and crumble the wet dirt. There is always the dirt.
The walk continues in circles and there is rarely a jog.
She keeps feeling the neck.
There is some uneasiness about the sense. There is some uneasiness about the cents. There is some uneasiness about the scents. There is some uneasiness about the séance. There is some uneasiness about the accents. And the accents. There is the welcomed fear of all things foreign.
There are the phrases of a lifetime. Like “all things x or y,” like “wouldn’t you know it?” like “hardly!” like “yeah right.” Yeah, right.
Bulging uneasiness. Bludgeon the blemish. Blistered and blue from blustery you, in verse. See. Maybe that’s “you, when speaking in verse.” “you, when I see your poetry.” “the inverse of you, or else me, or else not you.” “a stumbling way to say universe.” Blistered and blue from blustery me. From blustery universe. And I hear from deep inside the hearse.
Google showed me a picture of a jaguar hearse. That’s hear-say. You look it up if you want. There’s not so much of a difference between animals and cars. There’s not so much a difference between alive and dead.
There’s not so much a difference between walking and driving. There’s not so much a difference between life trips and death trips.
She keeps feeling the neck like it bothers her so much.
What do you think, that it matters?!
What do you feel, that it matters?!
What do you wonder, that you wander over the wilderness and use your wet wounds to paint the town red? You haven’t even done anything but been an asshole and hurt yourself! You’ll just be leaving the marks without the mayhem. You leave the marks in secret. You meddling scoundrel. You wordy hound. You senseless sentinel, what are you watching for? Foolish folly, repetitive, redundant.
The sounds are all that matter.
The beauty of the sounds is all that matters.
The sight is it. The beauty of the sight is it.
The feel and the timelessness are it. They are it. The beauty of the feel and the timelessness is it.
The changing tenses don’t matter. The grammar distracts. The grammar engages. The conjugations matter. The contradictions matter. The logic matters. You see the way being is singular and plural, past, present, future, none and all.
You scream at the vagueries and monotony and whim of the anything-versions of words and whacked-out bogus phrases. You scream til you’re blue and blistered and blown over and nobody heard!
Go get in your dang hearse and let it take you to sleep. Go on in and don’t worry so much; it’s not sleep.
Your vibrant souls are walking. Let them be, please. Be, please.
Buzz.
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