On the paper’s frayed edge, almost torn off, practically discarded, and set back in an emotional hideout, there are words to be spoken.
Words sprout like saplings. They grow, become the shell encasing the heart’s underbelly, then bark sheds like snake skin and is carved into by renegade colloquial artists.
Words are still words, yet care is not taken to hold them and maintain their original shine and feed then like a growing child.
One rarely looks into the emotional life of a word: how the bloodstains and tire marks initiate the conflict in the music and the broken rules give way to risks and gamble towards a neutered prayer that extinguishes meaning while later allowing a truce.
Constructed during a long span, destined to hurt another being, these words have a time and space woven into a cup that catches everything in between: the inchoate resentments, the astonished gestures and hidden body language pixelated artificially behind the atrocious tech-social masks.
There is knitting together in a factory that no longer exists, where the pavement’s cracked seams outside Manhattan’s eccentric emplacement cobble together a new fabric of poetry addicted to the night horizon.
Background slots in the mind’s eye where puzzles never fit were easily dissolved allowing the smoke from clouds to drip and disappear ultimately transmogrifying into pastel colors ever changing the morning drug-sky.
Words are like habits. Habits are chameleons, always there, barely noticeable and once you learn them you’re dead. Yet soon darkness takes all of the attachments.
Words change as human sculptures emerge. Rodin knew this and dreamt the street corner where the homunculi parade born of customs mutated where nature varies timeless images inside the sharp frayed edges.
A serrated river with fixed gargoyles: the fastened rocks around the careening waters of the witching hour bounds and hums along. These may be the only fixed words. Terms rooted to the earth’s rock where any change in the river’s decisions cannot loosen those interminably stubborn sentinels. This is where thoughts can redeem or corrupt.
Still, with octaves of fear and blind eyes there is an innocent song with part of the divine that cannot attach or explain itself in the interpreted world that so few people really understand. Often then, few take the time to imagine that their ownership of civility becomes the loose rocks floating aimlessly in that river Heraclitus never stepped into twice.
And so the mind designs inside emotions. Solutions are ignored. Animal instincts sharpen the twin-edged steel and hold the braided handle and that which we explain and exploit occupies all that we have; each precious moment carries something that matters and if it hurts, then that simply is…
