ResistedNormalcy

It might be a line in a song, a corner of a painting, a hand or word or tongue. A possibility. An arrowhead, aimed outward, your surrogate defense. It might be everything digging inward, deeper, impregnating you and waking you up: gently, smoothly, surely. It might be all of these things, or it might be love.

There are questions. Inevitably. Abstracts, hypotheses, the dread of conclusion. The open-ended universe, perhaps, only extending — creating space — never coming to a membranous halt and never contracting backward, back on itself. Perhaps.

Let me be unburied, let me be honest. This is polar, extreme, the arctic and stifling desert. Somewhere in between, between us, is the fulcrum. Functional, metallic, open-ended (my universe). Lets go there.

Filed under: Blather on June 22nd, 2007