Sometimes I wish I had someone to go with me to these things.
People dig into me. From all sides, they take me on deep as I stare at backs and feel the sneer of silent eyes heavy on my mind.
proselytizing my fear
convincing my sanctuary
Am I hiding enough? Not enough? Am I in that wide-open vulnerability against the taunts in my delirium? I can always feel it. My enjoyment is obscure in their imaginary power.
slow and smooth
Elbows on wooden barrels for tables. They slurp their madness. My madness is my sobriety. I’m not hero-bound in my reluctance to indulge. I find the new reality of terror and tingly skin, the abundance of feeling the most alive. I thrive in the stand as I commit to my failures.
live in the uncomfortable
Vintage signs static with hiss and locale. Their electricity cheats each other in competition. The days of bards who conquered censorship I fantasize with. Distinct they are among the prose. The rebel writers of rebellious religion wrote with addicted nasty fervor. My history, my now, the muse speaks shit and fuck, they don pageboys and illicit humor.
mind sans boundaries
Ancient green windows with stone walls mock the poseur. Decadence in word finds love among flannel shirts and ladies in beauty without makeup. With my notebook in hand my anxiety speaks on lines. My usual tricks are to compromise insecurity with lack of being prompt. Poetic ramblings amuse my child, the pet dog was named Sandbag.
clarity in the white noise
charity in my acknowledgement to the masses