the trouble with rage is that it is locked in a room. the door has been sealed by the magician capable of disguising doors and there is no distinction between the walls and the floor. one can only look up into the pane of glass reflecting the mustache of his postponement and the world freezes outside to a steel halt as ones existence moves within and on without him. there is no whiskey in rage. no coffee cup or side-fire to make one weep in his soup. no calling dogs or firing roman candles into summer relief. cousins live next door and the voices and rumblings of words one can't make out push thru these walls at all sides and the seething is unkept erupting into the mind and wasted imploding into the ashes of his tears. finally when one is forced to empty the door unlocks, but no man is empty, until he is empty.
jPayne 2.2.10
photo jP - studio winter 2010
No comments:
Post a Comment