If you knew that you could exceed what is due by compromising a little, by
forfeiting one obliqueness for another, that is / the obliqueness of searching for the
obliqueness of having found, / would you?

Would you answer / it’s not that I / was not enough for it, / but it / was not enough
for me, / but I was not enough for it because it was not enough for me. In between
the obliqueness of searching, there is the obliqueness of missing the obliqueness, of
having found though this present obliqueness is / a searching one. Then,
is it
only
here
that could prevent turning this searching into a having found and then
is it here
only
that any transfer of here into / a there
and there
would turn back the clock?

We build houses for people.
We are not brave because we do this.

Perhaps in going ahead we wish something irrevocable might happen though we
know it won’t, and what is irrevocable cannot happen, it was already there, before
either of us left, before the irrevocable could happen, even if it could.

Like two blocks of stone with faces carved into them facing each other mere inches
away from each other. Could we tell the hero the hero got it wrong? Could we
avoid a handling of this by bluntly mishandling it? When the hero has to get it
wrong, and we’re the medium, do we become more immortal? That’s one way . . .
Where did you get your teeth from?
From my hands, from
the shape I make
when the others are praying.

Sometimes when you are stranded in one landscape the furthest most opposite
landscape shudders you
so what
is the hypnotherapy working? What I associate thus with a grave mistake what I
associate with my own defect. Yesterday I tripped a dozen times. I have not
continued to fall.

Did the strandedness disarm our standstill or is it what makes the standstill more
lethal? Then / does our recognition of this eventually, sooner rather than later, make
it pointless to not disarm ourselves? You would push all your friends away? you
would give up all your friends for . . . ? Then you haven’t found them yet. / Remove /
your feeling from your diagnosis.

Remove your feeling of the martyr and what the martyr shall do, what came before
the martyr too. For you diagnose the martyr as being always without time, in the
illusion that they could be moving particles but all they these martyrs see around
them is the double speed of others not being martyred. I hear the beast panting,
also in double speed. I myself need to go to the bathroom at / double speed. I don’t
recognize the incoming caller, / their / area code.
We who breathe
with bows around our necks
perique and pulsed
to aggrandize the fringe
is now more than ever where
we need a place to lie fallow?
If it’s the only thing I do today, I’m tired of being resourceful, of fitting into a crack,
of finding ways to fit my aliveness into the cracks of martyrdom scattering work.
Having / lost that number / I could count in another way. Why is it the more I am
touched the more I belong to what touches me not configurable to me as toucher?
They’re reversible. Thus, empathy and shame. If I can see past the mounds and the
forklifts and just be on my way which is around the maze am I foolhardy? What
disappointment did I anticipate by avoiding telling him there’s no street there’s no
address there’s no ordinary courier system? The disappointment of a reality of
whisking away. We’re not / known / as primates in either case.
I have often felt assured, self-assured, varicose, in that there were some scenes I
could have documented per force not so calculated but pure, and I assured myself
or preemptively made the omission not because I felt there was a surplus or
something of those loose scenes among all scenes but because I forget sometimes
that’s all I need.

We might as well have been over-prepared for the drive, for we heard tales of
winding roads, steep drops, hands clutching to the sids of tiny cars, but it was not /
the road / that left us in awe. These were / incorrect / descriptions of a road. We
were not driving into / the heart / of a mountain. We were going on the edge of it, /
inclined.

One after the other are we to soldier on can we receive a rush is there a chance for
us to respond what we are tipped over into the place where dignity is at stake and
what’s that something fused with acceptance is that how / spree / goes so can /
spree / ever be walked back once we are tipped into / spree / how could we have
gotten something so simple so wrong because how to know the water mark would
disqualify know the mislabeling . . . would . . . disqualify . . . ?
Who knew sharing this tipping point would bring more risk could even tip us back.

Once I am unfettered I will cease
to have the urge to take out the trash my trash
may even immediately diminish by half once I
am unfettered how will I be used how will I let myself be used out of a bargain of
using?

How well will we take what our routine has melded for or of us back into the land
where we cease to be anonymous back to the land where we have more to answer
for. Even while being less technically stranded we are more confined even while
having more done for us our loose change becomes more and more distracted not
because we’ve said let’s not even bother collecting this but because we would have
to take time to find a place to put it. Is that what it took to be better friends, giving
up on what this loose change could amount to, giving up on what distracted altars
we could turn this loose change into, even if we would never count it up even if we
were resigned to the distracted altars of loose change?
I don’t think I’m hard on myself at all, I think the world is beat, the mind is the
outline of its batterer. I don’t know how I will handle my perseverance this time
around. And though I’ve figured out a way to find an added pleasure from watching
myself in my mundane pleasures, which ostensibly would at least magnify and not
diminish the total pleasure, my private life wants me to respond.
Like the beast, I have never before as now felt as much pleasure in surviving.
Though it may be said I am responsible for introducing the seasons of yelling to the
seasons between us, in the days before they got here when I almost regretted
wishing to bring them here I have been questioning how many seasons are really
contained in my yell and if there were not something monotone the sustained
renewing season between us had turned out of my yell. If gaming means figuring
out a way to use to the fullest while still being the one providing the favor, then
we’re gamers. Whereas the ones we feel encroaching ought to be coming toward us
but we’ve put ourselves in the blindspot in the mirror.

I used to think that because I heard fully what my mother said and felt fully what
my mother said about her mother and her mother’s mother that she heard fully
what her mother told her and felt it fully and that what my grandmother
remembered is something
I know.
Only the information is the same. Only the information is the same.

And what about the ones of us that don’t long for a jar of good soil from a friend?
Once I’ve seen this pendulum of violence turned outward I know then that our
peace can only come in my forfeiting of all that awakened my senses in the first
place. I have to in fact betray the very knowledge that got me here. I have to be that
tarnished / it.

What if we came to recede?

whatifwecametorecede