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Maybe
The silence
Of no applause
For the subway singer
Speaks louder than feigned
Appreciation, than fetishized fawning:
The standing ovation of the deaf sheep herd.
Maybe true feeling is only met with silence, the silence
Of no return to the question of why the silence brings a silent feeling.
Like when the inner flame of thought is quelled by the outer frame of discursive judgment; the embarrassing lisp of the inner infinite first feeling; the apologetic laugh, crafted to avert the penetration of an eye; coital fumbling blocked by the self-preservation of an unknown inner kingdom. There’s room here, too, for more obfuscation, for the cover-up white lie of the finally finding feeling that shades itself from summer heat, from the summer salvage of the sickening orange-like glow – no, bell pepper yellow, and succulent sweet too, like it’s turgid crunch – the crunch of newfound yellow-tinged snow beneath the size 5 boots that blast through the unknown, through the sickly, no…the orange…the haze-yellow after-sex glow…

Pangensesis

In cryogenic sleep
for centuries
I wasted through space
motionless
emotionless
and that was paradise.
 

for seventy years
in a half-remembered dream
I walked on the earth
joyless
harmless
and that was Hades.
 

You, where will you walk?
How will you float?
Eager, wasted?
Alone, or in the host of Andromeda’s Angels?