ten minutes is not enough of a phase for me to travel from exceptional student to a skittish nuisance. i’m the opening night for a loop which refuses to unstick from a climate of humid. coffee sweat and salty follicles loosen my hold on a golden cupid. i tan there, underneath a gold tomb too stiff to brighten its own shadow from a muted backside where the shade kills potted tulips.
my soft focus as you speak is not the obscenity you wish it to be. you’re interesting. i’m not guilt-free. stability is not an ally except to defeat; in achieving it, i forfeit outside dreams of a recording lease.
time and elementary are meant for a double-spaced page, not the scroll of a college-educated sage. but i confess to the deities that my status is not aided by a nineteenth-century cane. skill is a pill i take in the morning to graze the generosity of life before regurgitating rich, yellowed rays to clear space for accessorized refrains of pity, pithy, picky, prickly, pretty, and privy presented like broadway.
death seems to exercise its effects as a follower of life. within a week or month, one’s social circle is subject to both the steamy sighs of growth and the more volcanic eruptions that work not to forge, but to solidify.
when a loved one naturally passes (endings should be classified under an umbrella of organic since control over cell plasticity evades our tool belt), the process reverses itself but remains alive. in publicized premieres, extensive shows of opinion barter freely with emotional cries. meanwhile, the embers continue to suck in oxygen, crusting over segments seeking a place to hide. despite the books, television nights, and dinner whites, what is gone kept a lock on its latch to persuade the desperate types to reminisce on their prime instead of throwing out caution publicized by a nervous spine to flip the trend and pick a side.
– D K T