Tuesday, January 3, 2017

The Bare Foot Boy


v  In the shift of your day we find the feet of a bare soul. Watch it swim through black wonder. Watch it pull a thread from the white fabric of time. This is done without hands. As it is willed, soul turns too body for divine compromise. The soul finds a home within a boy. He can be found in his home. Windows allow a sun to have its living room. Light is given through choice. What isn’t illuminated? The task of life. An empty vase on a table. And a girl who, without notice, comes into view. Who is she?



v  Sigmund Freud on hysterical phenomena in relation to memory: “The fading of a memory or the losing of its affect depends on various factors. The most important of these is whether there has been an energetic reaction to the event that provokes an affect.” Perhaps he would have us all hysterics. Of us that are cynics, bear to heart, the man balanced the banal plane of altruism. Or, this is to say, nothing.



v  She is Michelle. She is in view. Of her hair, blonde. Of her face, freckled. An oversized shirt and a simple skirt with pockets cover her body. That is enough. She maneuvers through what has been given. Watch it ripple. She is looking for something. This is reflected in her tip-toeing. A slanted youth. As if she, the thing, is possessed of herself. Is her compromise, in and of itself, not worthy of divinity? She hears the barefoot boy. A nose is lifted. And a mouth waters in delight.



v  It is suggested to reflect from the length of an arm. No one involved in this text is to be lionized. Humanize lions.



v  Michelle has cornered our boy in his bedroom. Her nose is lowered. Mouth drenched. After 
standing over him, she engages base appetites. It starts with a hand upon flesh. A piercing silence is where it ends. This repeats with time. What hasn’t been said? The burden of memories to come. Trauma. A resting place of the flowers. And a woman who, without notice, comes into the bedroom. Who is she?



v  Freud – “An injury that has been repaid, even if only in word, is recollected quite differently from one that has to be accepted.” Economic, is it not? To allot compensatory measures to the word. I would pluck from all, repair. Not repaid. This will be left here.



v  She is the boy’s mother. Of her hair, red. Of her face, symmetry. A simple pantsuit covers her body. She inserts herself between Michelle and the offspring. Her queries are of fury. Watch Michelle flinch. Watch the boy’s solemn wince. Aside from the wrinkles of closed eyes, nothing is revealed. Mother clothes her son and takes him by the hand. He is to pull more fabric. See Michelle fade into red memory.



v  You! Creature, staring down your nose at these words. Sit upright. Position yourself for reception. I am the apology extended. Why? This undertaking is beyond his powers. It is not owed to you, yet, through you it is given. Yes. Far beyond their power.



v  Mother and boy find a new home. It is nice enough. Injuries are never repaid, even in word. What will never be shared?



*



v  Growth was for our barefoot boy. Unravel your mind’s eye. This would have us at the delta of red memories. Here, he would move through time. Oh, He would wind through it. Yes. Everything compromised in a moment, a scene, a memory conceived by its own constrictions. Ephemeral trickery for the sages. As a snake coils itself in a garden. An attempt at status nascendi. They would have us hysterics. You know this. Or, beneath the water of all days you couldn’t



v  A sparse kitchen table. Through his eyes, it would be unassuming. Eyes awash with sights of days’ past. Mother was in the pantry. After withdrawing from laborious labor she made a meal to share. Sharp was our child’s confusion. He looked down at his empty plate. A matte smooth surface.



v  “What happened to me mom?” She fed him. He slept. A whisper. Everything is going to be fine. I love you. What is the soul to eat? Sharp was its confusion. It looked down at memory. Flat and lean.



v  Footnotes are given with trauma. How daring is it to capture a passed one? It is not of you that this question is asked, yet, through you it is mentioned. You live here.



v  Our barefoot child moved onward. What was left? A switch in home and room. Pluck at the callouses over your hands. Gnaw at your nails. Life, as it were, foreword as behind, may have been lost to darkness.



v  He came of age. This was wrought in the city. Here, transgressions in kind moved behind mountains. Imagine this. In a classroom. Michelle is there. She will howl with the posture of a phantom. Her finger will press against our boy’s forehead. Or is he older?



v  The teacher commanded the boy’s attention. Anywhere outside free birds could be found. We have lost our track. A barefoot child, ah, but before it was memory. Chanting recants of confusion. He will encounter Michelle’s deeds found in a different body. It was to be wrought in the city. Body upon body. The soul’s never touch. They would have us hysterics.



**



v  In the shift of your day we find our barefoot child, lost. Mother was there. As was the house built of blood and brick. What was this house possessed of? Imagine. I have lead you this far. Men were moving about in suits. Of them was the estranged stranger. Who was he?

v  The people of the house became aware of themselves. It is for the lack of that our child was unware of himself. Unaware of soul in body. They would have us hysterics.



v  He is Tommy. He is in view, there, at a large dinner table. Of his head, bulbous. Of his mind, broken.  A simple black suit covered his body. He was sat a large dinner table. As were the suits beside their harem. Mother was there. As was our barefoot child. Two great Danes wandered about. Gentile were these giants. Not protectors. A meal was shared between them. As was the blood spilled and word.



v  What is to happen when a meal finishes? Perhaps, everything. Our boy, in time, left the table, danced in spirit, and found himself in the home once more. See his dancing soul.



v  Our boy walked up a swirling stairwell. The carpet was worn. He found a landing to sit on. Innocence was his preoccupation. Exploring himself. This was done through the oblique of intelligence. Yes. The innocence of youth. Sweet glory is the unknowing of good and evil. The sweet indifference of childhood. Once again this was to be stolen from your boy. Upon the landing, he attracted the attention of a curious onlooker.



v  What have we managed here? Not much in the way of all things. Names have been gifted. Sweet is the proxy of apologies for the lack of powers.



v  There, the boy was upon the landing still. The onlooker turned into that that has been given a name. Tommy. He approaches the boy, bulbous. Not of his transgressions shall we wince, yet, through them we must. Somewhere, before returning to the source, apologies are made for his concupiscent handicaps. Of his soul through body, all has been lead astray. He leads our boy, astray, into a bathroom.



v  Body upon body. Souls never meet. Only concerning the spatial realm.



v  The lights above are burning. Tommy’s desire is bright. Our boy is darkened out of view. It began with words and ended with the exposition of flesh. More transpired, however, it is lost with trauma of red memory passed.



v  Our boy comes too, trembling in a closet. And those trembling hands are placed upon his knees. Tears may fall down his cheeks. This is the compensation of soul. At once, he exits the closet to find himself in his mother’s arms. The scene below has grown boisterous. Everyone involved lionize themselves and their deeds. Tommy fades. He will find Michelle in the red delta of memory.



***



v   We have mentioned the boy comes of age. And it is wrought in the city. He will reconcile all he can. Soul will fade behind body to see what can be endured. It will not amount to much. He will meet the bodies of women. Their souls never touch. It is more of snake eating snake. This has all been for what? Creatures will grovel in the garden. And their bodies with them. I am there in body, lest my soul heals in the city.


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