Monday, December 1, 2014


Jesse S. Mitchell

Was Meinong wrong?
Marauding sense of impropriety, like the law of parsimony, are words not objects,
Little ricochet devils, that knock the drinks from hands, tilting hanging pictures on the walls,
Uttering unspeakable, soft and small, between something Cartesian, something Newtonian,
Logical, bite back, the great unstifling of everything.
Soft hands
Marching feet.
Fight back, those syllabic spirits that only care about the cold, or the unfeeling, the goose pimples flesh, only about the mess they can make, escaping the lips, wild.
That only know of chemical imbalance like dopamine rush, endorphin tingle, blood blush in the end, a song.
Only wants you, covertly, contently, quiet and subtle, an echo, under the tongue, a whisper, a murmur, a diphthong.

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