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Sunday, July 15, 2012

who is at gut of these feelings 1of4 7/15/12

It cuts into my breath in a dank way.

It has no beginning, I remember.

It could be just a foggy chill

but I don't recall its arrival.

It makes for

a small room sense of space,

the acceptance of limited movement,

something inferred as tragic

but no one speaks directly about it.

There is this absentia and wait.

It then rallies

to make some furious sense.

Maybe it comes from a recollection

but unclear if it was seen or spoken.

A false feeling of trap doors

is all around.

They keep opening

but no accompanying

or appropriate sounds follow

to reinforce the experience.

It is a quality but also a vacancy.

It is a compelling feeling

of being pressured,

followed by short fuses for thoughts

then periods of languid waiting,

like liquids that travel

overbearingly too slow

and feel muddy

yet quicksand inescapable.

There is a longing for other parts,

more spirited parts

of being self-possessed

to be engaged and remembered.

There is this, as an addiction,

held as a possible aversion

loudly and repeatedly

pronouncing itself inside

but still without words.

The messages run at me

as to run over me.

I can't hold them as thoughts.

They just blow by

then they break out into words,

muffled and distant by now

in the yell back overheard.

Some place else inside me

must do this work and tell me.

My death is an endless ribbon

coming out of me

by these slights of whispers.

I can only attempt to shock myself

to end the lucidity

of this labor as a confounding

sweetness of pain.

Who is a gut of these feelings?

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