If that anger is colloquial ought it not to be transcribed?
Off the gleaming edge of a rim shot I’m making strategies
which are more self-protective, flexible bounds stiffly into
silent shape — MY WINGS THE LIP OF AN HORIZON
Tears into a cup a faithful construction keeps me quiet.
I am a gate which is not open. I am on the threshold of
A novitiate for a profession in which there are no
Novices. The only game in town page of cups unhooks
Me. If I don’t take responsibility for my feelings.
If I don’t share responsibility. If I make a toy of thought.
If I see the expression of anger as a fantasy out of fear.
If the statement catches what is necessary it becomes the
engine for movement. Your seriousness generates a
reactive levity in me — I would smile or laugh to combat its
hideousness. Flick the fucking switch.