Multitudes and Considerations in Inherent Insanity
Everyone is a little scared that somewhere in the nauseous pit of their stomach or seeping out the pulling,
inching roots of their hair, that something is wrong, and that they are a little bit lunatic.
Actually, everyone is scared that they aren’t really a lunatic at all,
that they know something, and no one else does, but everyone fears them, or would fear them, that a whisper could unfurl that tightly wound rug and now you’ve done something—how could you?
You talk like your words hold all endings. I can hear it in your consonants and how you walk with the bugs on the floor. A certain type of withdrawn that feels less like hiding, pulling wool over eyes, and rather like suppression.
Everyone fears that everyone else is a lunatic.
The stranger in the eyes of your mother, the arms you’re wrapped in and how cobra tightly they could coil around your throat like hot rubber. Trusting the man on the sidewalk to stay a man on the sidewalk, as inconsequential and unknown as the starlight against him.
Everyone is a crowd, and everyone is a sweltering amorphous spotlight.
This means no one is listening. Sure. This is the logical and synchronous conclusion. We feed the tender doves their seed and they drown themselves in the lake. Infinite cycles of entropy: the Universal Oxymoron. Likewise, the earth holds your footprints and counts your breaths, the neighbor saw you dancing through the red curtains, etcetera. Time goes on and you are not individual, so nothing can happen to You and everything always does.
Dipping the fingers in candle wax, extend them in the shower to watch the sweet rain drip off the ends,
rake them through your hair and act like no one is watching. This is again, true and untrue. You live within a dance, it is sensual, deeply moving, and wholly inescapable.
You cried so hard one time you began to feel a strange fear
that your feelings would snare you, like an overextended joint, locking.
The impending invigoration before a fight, when your father told you your eyes would get stuck as a presumptuous 11 year-old. Staying up so late you shake. The concern is simple,
there is a point of no return and you can reach it.
You know you can reach it. And it feels like you’ll reach it right now. And everyone is watching.
Just a little further and you would’ve sunk the joint in its ball and you’d be stuck. And no one would come to save you.
Everyone is afraid of themselves and of you and can’t tell the difference, and everyone loves you because they are love and
the arm extends and cannot be told apart and you cannot tell why looking out of your car window feels like a spaceship and why
the itch down your throat feels a lot like the time your words went dry on stage and the only thing to catch you was everyone you couldn’t touch. Touch me now, extend your arm, break the seal or brush against it, become moonlight and let the old dog slumber, drift into me, tuck into me and let me have this dance. Please consider dancing.
