ramble ramble ramble on

I.
A square box white shoes leather hands coiled around a fragmented body all the things in the air and what they mean no more glue on my abdomen no more messages from the air the doctor, oh how he looked like Jackie Chan and there are so many damned places to go but no, this isn't about boys or drugs or the festival of lights or arriving late it's a series of images a pale road made of ink a lead tablet mounting to the finish and I wonder if I've fooled you in the way my hands move on things need to be done not in the frozen air and away from tawny death my thoughts somehow progress and bolden stop and I wonder if you know the things I know of rejuvenation of spells and wishes of empty interpretation of many pages and sources and sorcerers I'll prize you if you tell me what I think.

II.
This isn't something to jolt the senses. Rather, I'm in my prime and it is time. I'd choose classical music behind a nearby door, a sign of something changing, rather than waiting. I'd choose a brigade of heavy dark brown metal doors with the paint peeling off before I'd choose to do this myself. A firm opinion of mine -- we'll never really "know" each other -- what is it to "know" a thing? Rather, we'll be barred behind sensual imagery, thick doors cascading over our inner selves, stuck up against ourselves, ready to die because of a feeling, a whim. A beep, a buzz that you're on my mind thrice. And then what? Agitation. Knowing is immediate. I'll make more signs, you'll respond in your usual numb gestures, and nothing will be proven. Passive tense. Passive experience and relation in passive gestures. Eliminate the bodily senses, like an odd mucous, and get to the dry core of the feeling. Okay, what is it? Do you "know"?