by Raphael Moser
It was a therapy that set down as a foundational thesis: life isn’t fair
Ruminating about unsatisfying encounters is purposeless.
The solution action.
The therapy was arrayed in esoteric categories and mythological resonances
To distract from the work of substitution:
Familiar homey pain encircling and clinging, life at half mast,
Ditched for the pain of attaching the mind
To new movements of the body that create alternative worlds.
In the novel he counted to twelve and then said enough.
He had previously transitioned from a ferris wheel continuum
Of regret and reconfiguration, to a droning veneer he had devised to get by.
The dreams changed all that. He acted and pursued
A cry lodged in the recesses of his body,
Which lead to a triangulation of encounters,
And this particular dark journey of the soul,
Peeled away the layers of accommodation to the movement of come and go,
Waste in the service of progress.
Stripped him down to his very secret desire to connect.
