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Wednesday, July 18, 2012

who is at gut of these feelings Part 4 of 4 7/18/12

Why does it go on

and attach itself as if it were me?

Am I the bystander

of so called innocent cause?

Am I the demonic shadow

casting my form?

Why are my questions

howled yet denied?

Am I an invisible phone booth

of presence

that is crowded around

by faces full of wide eyes?

Everything looked at

is eventually ooze.

Even my grip is becoming

just a liquefied grasp.

That I hurt only seems

to be a bobbing to float.

What is in this bowl

that soaks me away?

Why is my heart

without boundaries and throb?

Why does this collective

weigh as my feel?

I keep waiting for this coma

of macabre animation to subside,

for a sense of containment

to represent me as my stand.

I keep waiting for all these fluids

pouring through me to dry away

and for this adrenal overdrive

to get out this body

as only my chauffeur.

And for him to curse me

under his breath

while kicking all the tires,

slamming the driver side door

then pissing into the gas tank.

Only then, for him,

walking gleefully away,

tossing keys and gas cover cap

over his brooding shoulder

into the four winds

now swirling into a void.

Who is at gut of these feelings?

Who is the fulcrum

of this teeter-tooter

with both sides always bent down?

Who is the anvil that pings

stricken as my soul?

Why is collision

now a form of embrace

and consternation

some sort of wry smile?

When did disturbing

become my calm

and how did this thunderous phrase

"get over it"

become my koan?

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