Clay figures as language acts

there is exploding and this sense of fading misery . . .
or mystery--it's distant, like running away but keeping its eyes always focused forward as it is pulled gently into space.

Intransigence.

I have been dreaming much, and the images are consistently pleasing . . .
the plots are more incomprehensible than before,
more nameless girls and faces I don't recognize.

I seem to be having trouble trusting myself.

Part of me has been waiting forever to be surrounded by true anarchy,
to finally witness whether I thrive wildly or am among the first casualties,
and so the fear slowly squishing everything in America almost makes me happy.

The other part, though, the other pat wants to become a professional,
not with a conventional career, but able to offer my greatest talents in tangible forms,
with a precarious stability of standing angled, falling forward to propel myself just almost hitting the ground.