at odds

February 22, 2014 at 4:30 pm 1 comment

at odds



all words begin as whispers

i’m told

all whispers start as breaths


odd what grim implications

this lends silence.



This is the latest in a series of poems actually inspired by ‘Miri, Professional Fun-Ruiner’ [I may have that slightly wrong] otherwise known as Brute Reason and her accusation that I was acting as if I knew her and (I think she was accusing me of) knowing how she acted or would act.  Or something.


Because of the fact that I hadn’t quite gotten that far (that is extremely sarcastic, to be noted because of the passionless characteristics of internet writing), I wrote a very short response, indicated I’d follow her wishes and wished her a nice life.  I would have forgotten all about it except for an odd “unsubscribe/abuse” notice with the sort of scrambled subject line that one would expect of a complaint and forcible unsubscription.  I’d already been deleting her stuff because it was idle interest and I’d no need for it clogging inbox=no unsubscribe routine.  I bet privately at that point that something had bothered her.  Note:  I am far too lazy to check.  The biggest note would be a response of hers to something.  I haven’t looked because most of all I could possibly get into some sort of trouble.


However, the poem is my bet.  The characterization of her words beginning as whispers is hinted by what of her blog I read.  I used to be a proofreader among other things although I’ve discovered I’m lazy.  She varies between a fear of being wounded and a fear of wounding–no, let me shorten this.  She lives consciously in the purgatory that is the city, and teeters constantly between guilt and pride and names it variously.


What I’d said, briefly, I think, was that she could never meet me.  She was quite angered by that.  She couldn’t because I do avoid others’ gaze and presence (although there is the other fear, that I become violent) and because we live a continent apart.  And I’d bet she’s waiting for me to comment on something in her blog, which I’ll never visit again.


I had a friend named John, once.  I told him, about ten years ago, knowing he was dying, that I just didn’t think I’d be able to visit him again.  Mind you, he’d ripped me off and I’d known it.  He’d talked behind my back.  He’d even warned me away from himself.  He basically begged me to come back.  I never did.

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A Prediction Of Sorts *OMFG

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