touching on sad tales

a sad tale compels the mouth of my life course to plunge into the dark blue waters of why and how.

there is. there is not a shark capable of devouring my insomnia of spiraling reasons for why and how to happen. there is. there is not a course, a straight course in the oral suffering of the narrator. And the narrator in pain is me.

I could have and have not. just a fraction of expectation greater than the entire matter of flesh and its contradictory enemies. And that event of flesh in the story is me. but the untexted, unstoried, flesh of gaps greater than nonsense is also me.

the coherent mouth looks for something to tell. none, one, you mature in my dark bliss of sweet silence of panic before dawn. That mouth defines the story and fails, always with an acute delay touching the first breasts, behind the text making love with my delayed fuse. That mouth is in control of life, ever since my touching been touched. first letter. Alpha written in flesh forever, bearing the Possible and the whole country of change