Like juicing citrus, my consciousnesses, being wrought
Firmly being ground into pulp and desirability
The violence of extraction, so pertinent.
i dream of this: the puzzles, the clairvoyantly prescient
like, I hear you: but I don’t speak that language
and I am tryin, tryin to get it...
but it is so many sounds, so many whispers against this backdrop
so gossamer and articulated like, like fabric
and its somewhere just out of sight,
like your missing tweezers...
when you need to pick an infected, ingrown hair out of the side of your face.
Like when your boss comes back from his first battery of 20 (probably needless) rabies shots
after you told him the week prior...
That creating unfair situations in the workplace is “How you get attacked by dogs.”
as if, creating a space for ghosts, gives them somewhere to live.
and I can’t stress over or understand enough—
I can never really tell if I'm doing it at all.
Where the feeling of the forest in its magnificent entirety
Is harnessed in the muse of hunting roaches by sensing them
And the ire of hearing your garden devoured, one bug-sized ‘crunch’ at a time
Thos same infinitesimally small stakes that leave an ache equally eternal
but the addiction of it —hits the spot
In the pursuit, some sort of realized beinghood
Where practice and execution merge
In the thrill of sharpening the liquid of the soul
Juiced daily from the grind of overlooked opportunity
