I have been crying a lot lately. It is a sort of slipping. It is a sort of opening.
But also repetition. As in you can know your lines perfectly and still not walk on stage. Macbeth was pushed, is what nobody ever wants to see.
If I call, will you answer? These poems - when they are poems - are an opening for you after all. In my dream we are custodians of a certain flame.
Walking in the woods, the familiar fear attendant, one sees at last they asked for it. He looked old and even chagrined. It hurts, this life, it hurts so bad and still we love it so.
The tears are a sort of defeat which in turn is a sort of victory which is basically the same old loss. We live in a trailer, we drink instant coffee. Yet when you sing as you sweep my heart opens like a masculine hummingbird's in summer.
Night is never more night than now. I am done with hurt and anger except when I am not! After they bought me ice cream to say "this is why it has to happen" I never wanted ice cream again.
It is a sort of slipping for which I am grateful without knowing why. A sort of opening in which one cries, finally.
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