sigh, people;

I miss what was with this particular

person.  The conversations that were

seem to have lost their floral

headpieces.  Probably because of me

(because I’m critical like that),

but I really don’t want to see it that way.

I refuse to see it that way.

People can just be so dry, so boring,

so unfeeling that you could very well

justify having a newly-acquired DDS;

pulling out teeth so the recipients

(patients) can maybe speak

unencumbered.

­

At least toddlers seem to have a physical

world-style curiosity, i.e., those

referenced by Frank O’hara—the eyes

rounded & probing, huddling around

each other in gaze, munching muffins

with clean teeth, watching how the

kinesthetics express around a woman

dancing, like they’re devouring

cartoons.  It’s all about the show: ate,

until one of them accidentally nibbles

at their fingertips; amidst tanks

roving and bombs falling (in some

instances); developing their

independence and petting kitty cats.

Devour me with your interest, or don’t.

­

Because I only have curiosity until it

isn’t reciprocal.  Then I get bored, since

there’s only so much of a load I can

carry—one in the existential backpack,

one in the testicles, one (of variable) in

the sides that are outside me, etc.; it

gets heavy enough for me to fall back to

a natural preservative state of

consciousness.  This is the within of my

personal ethos: preserved for the sake

of further preservation.

­

The preternatural tubing only goes

so far outside of my own

experience, considering others;

even 8% beer or wine doesn’t make

me love the runner that manifests

you.  I’m a director, you’re a

director, right fucking here.  Make

me love the motion in the picture,

the picture in the motion, blah blah

blah insertion.

­

Out about the margins, I want to be

seen for what’s declared on the

inside.  Maybe loved, at times

lusted over, but nonetheless seen

for the substance—given the rubber

and the road.  Maybe I’m just

complaining without justifying solid

innards.

Fuck me dead.

If this is love, it’s postulation.