The Knowing

Step outside of the box you're holding. Yes fine, that'll be fine. Oh my god. Anyway swat a sunlight fly, pull up that zipper from little tiny foot to little tiny neck pudge. Green slimy fruit you light of my day you knight of my castle lofted high acrag. And the expectant gaze. The knowing gaze unmoved by my flailing, unamused. What would it take to entertain her/them? Something beyond even the maximum ultimate capacity of my own knowing. Something far, far beyond it. I could string together my dumb words and shriek and fit and rage and her knowing wouldn't stray from its tired gaze and bored eyes. You must be Off I'd say and she'd know what I was trying to do. O wonderful. The lengths you go. That story you told us and I had no idea how clearly it illustrated everything. Who can know? I mean, obviously you can, that's the point of this whole thing. Business and industry and markets and consolidation and optical processing and that little animated cloud filling up grey and you knowing, and riding the metallic curry coffin I care not I want not but I do frown. I look at those shapes and wonder, "did anyone have a strong conviction about the shapes or was it kind of an afterthought?" It easily could've been an afterthought and the knowing group looked on and it was pain. It is pain. There is pain. I'm one dropped glass from a fit, she knows. I'm a loose cannon rolling down a grassy hill, she knows. Am I awoken finally, get that needle out of my mouth, Annie. Get your spiderweb tit tattoo off my chest and that needle OUT. OF. I knew she knew, and yet when I left myself off on the curb and said "close the door," she knew. I arched her back a little funny and those eyes pierced me and knew. Like on a genetic level. And I think about those few chats and my histrionics. How would the sledding turn out? How would all of the channels turn out? She. knew. She knew when I bared my innermost thoughts, what did I know of such a long throw? Just that it was long. Oh fine oh forget it.