manuscriptx
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The poem is the problem. The structure has no meaning or context; no insight or point of reference. It doesn’t have what I call – the woman I can clearly see in front of me; standing there in the middle of trolley tracks dancing in the wind; her hair toiling and bristling along with her stomach dress, white with all red polka dots.
The paragraphs don’t have any angle to them. An enemy; usually someone brilliant and evil or a kind of man at odds with his own self branding of is deeds, surrounding by his own reality and sometimes, often times his hands end up wrapped around her throat successfully killing her, his victim; another one dead, another innocent woman, another helpless female.
Stories like this of courage and helplessness have no angle that you can trust. You the reader have to enter the story from behind. A world where there is nothing to see before you but dead empty pages. There’s always an origin. There must be. If you can look in front of you, you can see the players. Understand their feelings. Look inside from one story to another and try to change the outcome with your feelings about them. Last Friday I saw myself in this point of view as I traveled on foot three quarter miles from one end of the spectrum to the other; my old locations, my old homes that I used to live in once upon a time. I wanted and hoped to gain some kind of perspective after I spent the day dying in my own mind. I failed from a distance. The person I see far in front of me is the one who has the success story to tell. But his mouth is completely closed. He can’t speak. He can’t see or know where he’s going. He’s kind of listless and lost. Emotions are just as much an indescribable energy as anything else; they don’t go anywhere; you can’t bury them or change them into something useful. I expected to feel hate or anger this time as I walked by my old college in a long list of failures. Nothing, no emotions needed or displayed. Part of living is failure. Learning how to be human; school and family don’t teach you how to experience things like embarrassment or rejection; the wherewithal to be persistent and advantageous; knowing how to do things; knowing when not to place yourself in “that” world. Often times when I look at something; I see the world inside it. I see the waves, I see the ocean, I see myself and that’s part of the problem. That’s always been the problem. What I see doesn’t exist; and yet I memorize it and make it real. Last Friday the street could have stretched a couple hundred miles or a million and it wouldn’t have mattered, just a couple of clicks on a taxi meter to take me from rich and spoiled to sour cream and rotten. The picture’s not right. If there is no tale to tell, then what good is it? Why does it even end? Even the various lines that supposedly go on forever have a vantage point. An origin that has to be seen from it’s beginning.
Kissing a man and knowing where your fingers go. Biting her shoulders and realizing that this is a woman. It’s not an act. Mountains and evolutions divide us all. Time is the never ending penny made out like the shape of a circle that has never had any less value than a whole roll of dimes and quarters; the end of the story.
The paragraphs don’t have any angle to them. An enemy; usually someone brilliant and evil or a kind of man at odds with his own self branding of is deeds, surrounding by his own reality and sometimes, often times his hands end up wrapped around her throat successfully killing her, his victim; another one dead, another innocent woman, another helpless female.
Stories like this of courage and helplessness have no angle that you can trust. You the reader have to enter the story from behind. A world where there is nothing to see before you but dead empty pages. There’s always an origin. There must be. If you can look in front of you, you can see the players. Understand their feelings. Look inside from one story to another and try to change the outcome with your feelings about them. Last Friday I saw myself in this point of view as I traveled on foot three quarter miles from one end of the spectrum to the other; my old locations, my old homes that I used to live in once upon a time. I wanted and hoped to gain some kind of perspective after I spent the day dying in my own mind. I failed from a distance. The person I see far in front of me is the one who has the success story to tell. But his mouth is completely closed. He can’t speak. He can’t see or know where he’s going. He’s kind of listless and lost. Emotions are just as much an indescribable energy as anything else; they don’t go anywhere; you can’t bury them or change them into something useful. I expected to feel hate or anger this time as I walked by my old college in a long list of failures. Nothing, no emotions needed or displayed. Part of living is failure. Learning how to be human; school and family don’t teach you how to experience things like embarrassment or rejection; the wherewithal to be persistent and advantageous; knowing how to do things; knowing when not to place yourself in “that” world. Often times when I look at something; I see the world inside it. I see the waves, I see the ocean, I see myself and that’s part of the problem. That’s always been the problem. What I see doesn’t exist; and yet I memorize it and make it real. Last Friday the street could have stretched a couple hundred miles or a million and it wouldn’t have mattered, just a couple of clicks on a taxi meter to take me from rich and spoiled to sour cream and rotten. The picture’s not right. If there is no tale to tell, then what good is it? Why does it even end? Even the various lines that supposedly go on forever have a vantage point. An origin that has to be seen from it’s beginning.
Kissing a man and knowing where your fingers go. Biting her shoulders and realizing that this is a woman. It’s not an act. Mountains and evolutions divide us all. Time is the never ending penny made out like the shape of a circle that has never had any less value than a whole roll of dimes and quarters; the end of the story.