chronic condition

and suddenly, you’re 32, and you don’t recognize where you are, and you have been to many places, and you think there are still more to go to, and maybe you are overcome by greed and selfishness and a home that is not your home but that has halls that are filled with all the things that could make someone see that you’ve come along into whatever it was they said you should come into, with a sole sock with a heel bitten at, photos rickety from their contemptuous relationships with walls, with an uncomfortably narrow suffering stomped into the floorboards – the size of a foot, but not a man – and you are aware that there are places you do not want to go back to, but there when the river froze and you were born with the blooming fall and there were promises of that great, good thing, that whole being who would see this mess, that would understand this mess, that would heal this mess, was it so bad, were things so bad where unaccomplished dreams go to live alone and thoughtfully, and people have died in millions of small and big ways, and the placentas still beat gross and magnificently and unattached from the two hearts that hoped and held and saw that the heel was a bit deformed. the bone was not right. the steps were worse. what is this thing, this mess?

the pictures try to fall when you bob to the hall, but the walls are thick with jealousy. they hold on. it is all they know how to do. to remain. to persist. and gradually.

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