Monday, June 28, 2010

Blunt Services



And there you sit, waiting. We both go to psychiatrists, forsaking the old farmhouse.
The hand remembers the pitch-black arrows when the room had been transformed,
Rusting nails mistaken for fields of woodgrain. He persists in speaking to me off premises
Of tangles meant to last a day, yet they thrum the broken teeth of the comb too close

To know of your tactful agreement. Among variant musicians it pleases: a room transformed,
Embargoed by rebellion, 
...



3 comments:

Σφιγξ said...

The rusted nails part is terrible. I cringe at it.

I wish things would have queued so that I could go online for an accounting degree. The path is tortuous. I would have been closer to completion instead of at loose ends, and contemplating a managerial role and degree I do not really want. I pray for the clarity to know what to do.

Some things are extraordinarily clear; however, when I think of going the way of Marjorie, and being grateful for anyone taking me, and making do, I do not understand how it energizes you. I do not understand how this can be fulfilling at all, for the next year, five years.

Σφιγξ said...

The path is not apparent because there remain things to be satisfied.

The illusion of being finished; when I finally complete a project (or walk away from it), cannot apply IRL. The added layer of complexity is that I cannot measure your thoughts on things. The judgment is always ready but not the advice.

I realize what I said in September was not nice.

Σφιγξ said...

Exercise 91.