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Author: evan green
Contact: sprunger@colorado.com
Profile: merely a catharsis
The easiest place to start, at sight of an opaque haze wrapped in seasonal, scarfed chill like a nautilus the glare/glow of the screen the only sound space to lean on hence sequestered, removed by choice the air is keen for the oft, dressed up but nowhere to go, the moon gazing misbegotten and those in steadfast denial of what this temporal fabric consists- tones of home, domesticity, feelings buried in years of depravity and crushed insurgency, racquet-balling the garage until an earlier than accustomed dusk, identifying the missing inputs is as difficult as quantitatively verbilizing the feelings, easily hurdled when the soft caress of summer wrought azure hours like clockwork encouraging complacency now the air takes a bitter tongue turn leaves organized into piles somewhere, they are being burrowed into welcome, soft corduroy the physiognomy of embracing hearth side aromas and here I grow another year older instructed compelled by a guide whos motivation I could not begin to elicit to hark back those things I lost long ago the arbor thresholds I traverse foretell a forsaken the grim onset I both welcome and loath but to be wiser and better prepared is worth the end of the spectrum (effusive Fred Meyer commercial type of spoil) thwarted I never could say I had the choice to leave familial bliss and the natty friction of closeness, gathered around an heirloom and an artifact not a reality, or so I thought until a time not so long ago, yet. . . I spend a few months a transplanted observer a matriculate in Venus's caprice and ruthlessness never I say with some clairvoyance despite maternal efforts to do the same in a polar opposite vector even the hurt carried in this capacity is lessened at night, frequently a child a canvas unmarred by time's vehemence going out somewhere the sights and smells of these autumns yet again I smell like this now dwelling on such "unreachables" with too much stubble I resign myself to a life centered on just that there is no hand on a receiver, anticipating no more, wool-sweater, breath-trail-holding-her- gripping-viciously hands keep busy so they aren’t allowed to recall being laced, being forgotten. pictures removed and consigned an out of sight/out of mind status what is best? what is expected of me as it pours in my window? vivid pictures from all stages visages long since relieved for once I cannot explain though I’d like to be understood, loved. there are other directions an afflictive life courses other ends, products and results for those of us who emerged under, and think as though misalign and maladjusted easily encapsulated in eccentric, you could expect offense at this unknown is the magnitude to the rest of you, those who relent or he who has only imbibed the sunny to at last reach a seemingly dispassionate epiphany: Fall or would it be felled?
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