Monday, October 17, 2016

immodest contact.

an arrow pierces my eyes the moment i looked, caught off-guard;
eyes widened with surprise.
it was always there, waiting. my looking its way
was chance.
(i did not mean to be eager. i guess i was ready to stop fighting.)

my sight vanishes at once. there is opportunity
to forget claustrophobia. i am preparing. relaxing. breathing steadily.

i'd wondered if i'd lost innocence- the rite
of passage we ignore as considering deceit. i did not mean
to be eager.
(the innocence was never a solution, itself.)
deceit becomes when we believe we will become humans
that we are not already.
with guilt and grief we impose deceit on ourselves, justifying
the triumph of deceit. the appropriation
of problem as solution. (the consequence
of denial.)
disease of our grasp is from clenching understanding around
what does not exist.
vowing ourselves to one cause
is vowing ourselves for war- one cause is against all the others, in which
we find disgust we look for and exploit, hiding
our disappointments in ourselves however we know how to.
trading ourselves until the zeitgeist becomes- that's when
we remain unsatisfied-

the dream has come true and we have misunderstood
what we were to learn from it.
it is not a mask.
the mask is that which is grasped.

failing to dedicate myself to my own biases, i do not know
a zeitgeist in myself. i don't know where to go.
i have not taken the first step to know where to go.
i feel no force.
i feel so lonely without force.
i need to go like how others go. in a new direction. like how the others
convince me they go. forcing myself
as though i do not count as anyone.

an arrow procured my baptism
against orientation, against mocking my education (against
emulating my education), against illusion of security.
the arrow directed toward my experience.
i visit what is not mine, feet barely touching the ground- mouthpiece

of the wind, at the times when the wind urgently demands
to be understood, when messages passing over roofs of houses
does not do.
agony is not the winds. it is not mine, either.

is it less influenced?
is it disturbing that influence can be a vestige of how it seems?