The Worst Days Are Excellent

Each morning is case for reevaluation.
Dreamy remnants causing this
A whirl-wound mind-glass

Down on the avenue,
all the neighbors must have their television sets out by the curb overnight. Because they’re going to summon the strength to walk out the next morning
and demolish them in unison.

I want to know for myself what true intelligence is,
and not what another person says.
Some times I have nothing to speak of,
Listening to third parties that aren’t in my vicinity.

Can I even call myself extreme if my attempts are broken up by relapses?

Maybe that is the singular condition of my life:
to battle the elements of myself while the rest of the inanimate world watches.

Does it matter or does it not?

These questions are the ink of an octopus,
storming down from above, with a stark and solid background.
I’ve found myself without agenda,
without the range of motions that were belittling my alleged potential.

Is it ennui?

Is this life my lover or my friend?

Drinking poison in disregard,
so that the fissures will fill in with clay,
taste buds gone and tendrils writhing,
music masking the clamor of those brainless mechanical heroes.
Havens that we call cities are the collective cemetery of childlike souls
who cause the accidents and steal away.


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Writer, aspiring farmer and homesteader in North Georgia, making ends meet and trying to become more enlightened.

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