Some times aren't poems. Some times are walking too long in flats, girl, sit down.
A long time since an update of prior narratives, since cat pictures, popsicles, or pop songs.
Funny how nonsensicalifornia zoomed itself out, into the background, while summer slip-and-slided away with the momentum of nostalgia, a belly flop impact, and slowing down stopped. Lift yourself up again, meet it how it goes.
All these terms: positionality, reflexivity: I like them. And then last week, the professor asked "Is there reality?" and looked at me. I said, I don't like this question anymore. The more I looked at it, the more it twisted.
Like the day this Spring I found my water pitcher shocking. I've had it several years. Why should there be this pitcher? Why this one, out of all of them that look the same? It's unrealistic.
Or maybe not. Check if the picture is to scale. Check if you're for real.
Ancient words: The eye cannot see itself. So of course I don't know. I'm always missing something.
Nonsensicalifornia peers into the absurd, sometimes absurdly, lifted from the same coaster as death. "What is irrelevant?" I think of flamingos. It's always the flamingos.
I get these mental pop up windows. Makes me stop and close close close, this thought, that, maybe shut it down, restart. Wait, no machines. Just this organic being who wears clothes and carries stuff all the time. You know like tea cups and bags and cables. Organic and real, with real feet and moving fingers, dry skin on the face while yawning. The sensation of stiff joints, a real being.
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