it has a name

[im_a_knife]

yours was a nice thought,
such a nice thought, you bore.

mine was always rethinking itself,
apple, seed, core, eaten up and
-up thrown.

yours was a pretty intention,
such a pretty intention, was yours.

mine was always dressed in its detritus,
discarded dermus, superfluous
-for show.

yours was a good deed,
such a good deed, you did.

mine was standing behind it,
standing behind it and
-not much more.

--

this can't be healthy, this fall of sleep, this, one night rest and two day snore. today more than one, two yesterday less than. it's like the delay from mouth to ear making everything you say futuristic, post-apocalyptic. the post-apocalypse would be a nice time to start a small personal business selling back time, only time will sell, i think.
(i don't)
or thought, putting off the inevitable pass from this- restless with ourselves and on mushrooms asking the same question each time more intensely;
'how are things normally, how do things work normally,
how do things work? do things work normally,
do they work,
do they normally?'

and the words were digging in in in
and never out the same way again.

but even that's not what i meant.

normally, christian