Sunday, March 28, 2010

sense and sensibility

some times have no barriers of sense, they blow up without kindling and the doppelgangers crouch quiet unquiet, reciting rules and regulating thought, freewheeling unrestrained morphing motion channeled back into the pool, its called recycling, sometime in history it was cycled, wasn't anyone watching?

where did we go with this formula, a spade for a spade, a rose is a rose, did we eat dinner off this thought, was pleasure foretold and felt rushing by it, did it shed as pupae, showing off golden naked skin, sloughing off like industrial disease, what was it the fatal attraction to malformed motive and misinformed histories, the stubborn blindness to what the eyes receive

I am an angry woman, that's the legacy of birth, but more mystified stymied, where is this face living from, where are these wheels turning from, why the random puppetry of breaths, impromptu theaters of caricatured dreams, has nothing difficult ever been simply asked and answered. don't tell me to go or stay, or sit or turn, just say what the hell you want and its a simple yes or no from there, why the stark terror anyway

this is a swinging illusion that lives just behind our blind sides, between mind and heart, feeding off both, denying both, this is a freedom from thought, freedom from action, suspended carefully in winged strings and shook trembling from four winds, I believe they call it life


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