I like to believe that nobody understands me and I'm one of a kind lost to obscurity but hinting of mysterious significance
And I feel sorry for my uncle's three-legged dog and the malignancy of fear in rural America and the failed successes of the Bolsheviks
I wonder about the air in Saรต Paolo in January and the muskuloskelatal infirmities that creep in and make the aged into churlish curmudgeons
There is no way I could hunt truffles or find a fresh Morel in the woods when I didn't even realize until my grandmother died that we own a creek
Uttering vespers in moonlight yields some sanguine lucidity like contemplating the nuanced differences between polenta and cornmeal mush
It's like I'll never write a poem in time or finish a marathon or kiss a stranger deeply through the crisp ventillation of nevermore.
We might daydream the bombastic colors of Cezanne but all we'll ever be is some nondescript platinum ischemic flash, a slimy buffet consisting in all-is-lost
An apocryphal journey to the center of the city faces our insubordination to plastic with the harshness of a dictionary in the face of the illiterate
But in the end, apoplectically forgotten, I come to the unintelligent conclusion, mathematically speaking, that there is nothing singular
nor more available than the finite banality of my empty, insufficiently obscurantist words which flow and choke and all can know and see clearly through
though I insist that none of this pretence is born of any maleveloence, and I chide "How very meta of me indeed"
to have thought of another witty and most cleverest retort the day after the insult was first delivered
But I used my last gift card to purchase this still life to pierce the hollow cerulean satisfaction otherwise known as tears
Barring diastolic ****** I'll stick around to see how this all turns out and hope that one day I can stop being so completely understood
And then I can hide in the lonely and find refuge in the cave as a single meaningless scrawl buried in the last pages at the end of the world.