These are not poems.
They are a peeling of a personal onion.
It’s not art, it’s an elimination game.
Looking under each level to find curiosities, illusions and jokers.
Useless cards.
A pursuit of taking the onion to nowhere.
Of understanding never going anywhere.
Trying to find some amusement in the action.
Peeling for peeling’s sake.
Kind of like knowing there’s nothing but pain under a scab but picking it anyway.
Pain and amusement being interchangeably nonsensical.
