dark alleys

a little sniff, frees the mind of smell by enveloping its contents in another one with spaces and dust and crevices untold because a smell cannot be told in words nor can words be sniffed unless, unless, you have a particular kind of nose or particular kind of ears and that is rare, or perhaps not, perhaps we’ve all been cross-wired and that is the norm. It is hard to say, without a tongue, using only my ears, but perhaps that is cross-wired as well. And how do I even know of this thing about crossed wires, and what if it is only the least of the disconnections, the basic form, and there are oh so many many more in towering levels of complexity that make a simple crossed wire almost like sesame street to the esthete mind. but who knows. who cares? this writing, this thinking this a stream of song in the tawdry lines of syntax where meaning seeks to burst free for a moment or wiggle its tail happy to be noticed or enticing to be noticed and what, should I trust where it leads, because I think that words can lead to places we don’t want to go can take us, steal us, kidnap us bludgeon us down alleys of thoughts with the thugs of feeling closing in as it darkens and narrows and we are mugged of our lightness of being and left to struggle our way back to normalcy with scars with stories with a certain deadness of eye that accumulates like heavy metal in the soul when we catch any ride that words offer and steal the essence of the moment in the gutters of strange sludge in the city like gotham without batman or maybe we are all batmen and batwomen crusading our inner streets with no purpose other than the rigid mores we have been imprinted with by that show and that commercial and that sermon and that belief…


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