pulling the curtain back

intuition substitutes for my short memory.
Built into this human scaffolding
it reacts, a blunderer amidst refined wisdom
the uncomfortable one with greasy hair.

I am no master. I count months with my fingers,
and cannot recount the purpose of the circle of fifths.
I am a wholly unformed vessel, too easily lost
accepting life in all its demented, ingenious forms.



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