Automatic Writing: September 15, 2014

I am continually amazed by the complexity
of living, not only because of the way
my skin blooms purple and scarlet
if it is hit too roughly against a table
or if I turn the razor the wrong way
against my hip, but also because
the girl I ate lunch with yesterday
complimented my shirt
and in the same breath
condemned bisexuals, because my roommate’s
friend wondered how intelligent people
could ever believe in God while I looked
at the rosary hidden in my lap.
We are such high-energy compounds,
constantly bouncing off of one another,
canceling each other out or amplifying
one another’s motions, that I wonder
how I can ever understand myself.
I wonder how many bruises have formed and healed
without my noticing they were there,
almost as often as I wonder how many of my words
have found their way into someone else’s lungs,
collected there in little black pockets,
needled into the tissue like coal.


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