unusual me

i woke up this morning to the sound of a mandolin, trilling away in a lonesome corner, diffuse, suffuse and disquieted. arching my ankle in a perfect bow, tip-toeing, i walked over to the kitchen, a generous towel carelessly creased on the edge of my elbow, to brew coffee. bold. definite. and defiant. accompanying the stimulus, i peered over to a glaze phenomenon. a criticism of words. to read “My penchant for portraying my dreamlike inner life has rendered everything else inconsequential; my life has atrophied terribly, and does not stop atrophying.”Kafka-esque and vernacular, of '16. scribbled in recess, in the harrow of finesse, generated in the rigor, in the peculiar of a confession. unsettled, depressed and desirous. thinking back on the luminosity of thread loops, of an infinite hyperbole of expression, existentialism and mystery. this is the authorship of imagination. the expanse of the red neurotic muttering to herself, humor me in the vessel of stitch impurity. humor my eccentric, a labile discordance, misunderstood, misinterpreted, compared to a compass of the inanimate, a paragon of the absurd, the liberate, the literate, the psychosis familiar, wriggling in the corner of psychiatry. in the expanse of narcotics, and sexual paramour, i want to tempt the leveler of logic. crawling out of a dermal testimony, this is the other me. this is the me that resides in the pocketbook of hermeneutics, in a pursuit of the sexual, in the cage of secrecy, roiling in the theoretic, the macro-centric meaning of madness and whim, the seventh layer of selfhood, the meaning of i, vaporizing, slipping away from the anatomy of time. to want to squeal to my bones, to the charity of souls, to the desirability of infamy, to liberate a flutter, build and rebuild, rise and resume, and tense and haul and pull and strum the ineffectual, the yearn, the narrow covet of a better mind. to stand on my heart and look at the ceiling of the vascular, lyrical in hormones, baffled with bruise, sense of un-belonging silvering the future of life unlived, anachronistic, odd-spectacles looming on my individual. i am the fragmented, the unusual ova, aging behind curtains, self-deluded, crookedly bovine, swallowing a hysteresis of sexual magnets, undulating in oddity, percussing on asphalt the narrative of onyx, etched in banter and mobilized sleaze, rummaging with winds of temperature frills, shattering and scribbling, scraping and building, jarring and shaking, growing and beating, the spectacle of me. the other i. the unusual me.