Look over your shoulder for the hustle of words.

Saturday, June 21, 2008

Emotional Algebra

Unsure how I am led
to this juncture of illogic
I simply marinate in the
impossibilities
the ability to dissemble.

I can't, shan't ease away from this;
I'll rush to it, like water to the seam.
You do not know.
You are a man made of
wires
wood
and algorithymic calm.

I rise to my nature
like a taut miniscus,
my hair in my hands, your words
a dancing play of scent;
a heady show of
boronia,
correa stars
of swept up ideas.

I agree without being asked.
Without being motioned forwards.
I acknowledge the virus;
I catalogue the sincere parts of my gut
and calculate the mean I can preserve.

Unembarked upon memories;
memories not even halfway to the squall.

If I emerge again, I'll fly them
high high high
as kites.
Defy the champing mouth
of the advancing human grave.

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