I struggle to not hear the voices and focus on the line, the word, the work, the breath, the moment, the standard passing of time and deliverance from this lifers bondage.
I hold the key, juggling it out from one hand to the other and the intermediate pocket but still cannot find the door from where I came in.
oblivion, yes oblivion and we hang. ticking ticking absent from our mortal clock in which the hours pass by and days and days are numbered lest remembered filtered through our hopes, dreams of what was and what should have been.
but this is me and without the medication to narrow my path focused on the reality that is elsewhere or nowhere or invented by Eli Lilly and company in some board room and experimental lab where test tubes are filled with patients like me.
our subject may be queer in the head, our subject may be recognized to be not there, filling time time time always time in notes and sufferings small and individual expressed out in letters scatters around America or larger, the world.
the platitudes of willful resemblance 