(title)

my fingers are numbing; the air’s on and sausages are cooking.

you better recognize me. you better recognize me. you never recognize me, you never recognize me.

i stood there, outside of your house,
soles of heels digging their own place,
and i stood firm in the beliefs
the walking’s ‘way and i knew we’d need
another step inside, another step inside
to hold the pressure from
to hold the pressure from;
and, and
i tried to hold you,
but you walked inside;
you tried to scold me,
and you did a damn good job.

i forgot the whole purpose of this exorcise was to find out what’s next, not to dwell on what’s been. i guess that’s the right thing to say; i never really thought about what i was writing, just how good the fingers felt in rapid succession. maybe i should have put, “cessation,” there instead, to try and sum up how joyous one’s mind feels when the body becomes some sort of rogue entity, devowed of knowledge and let run wild with whatever comical and miscreant thoughts lay before, behind, beneath the fingertips and betwixt the raising of the hairs on scalp/neck/arm/knuckle. how ordinarily plain. i wish true spaces could be used,
instead of this ramp-up to a mock-up. i feel as hotly contested actions in a boardroom are making my decisions for me, and not myself, my SELF. i don’t know my self, though, so it’s not as though i were entirely missing something there.

i sat on the stool a bit, and pondered, how enticingly long my nails were, and how those sheers, or, “nail-clippers,” seemed to be a welcomed benefit of this role we’ve called, “humanity.” and then it dawned on me, or, more accurately, rose within my being’s mind, and taunted me with images of some cave-like, encino-man-esque rocker of the hair, with long nails, and i thought, “how truly outrageous (gem!) and unlikely in wild settings.” how, then, do we go about grooming ourselves? naturally, we probably cut or arrange ourselves in a way which is suitable for our fellows’ and their kind, or our own needs and desires. how does a cat groom oneself, though? how do we pick at ourselves in such familiarity, but look upon the cat as some lowly creature, caught within itself; or the dog, who constantly scratches and licks, but is so completely, undecidedly without soul. and, i thought, that’s only true in a culture, not inside.

we are but pets who govern themselves. how terribly allowing of grandiose thought if we were to be some pet for a higher creature, left on Planet Earth as the other pets were, and we are to fend for ourselves, with ourselves, and against all others, until we find out that we’re rolled up in the stars and able to read our destiny if we but look at the helix-like nature of the systems, and accept the fact that we’re two-centric: ourselves and our views.