The Difference In the Stories We Want To Tell

Ohh I could have sat with my heart --elevated with dribbled echoes-- ahhhhhh until it yet exhaled the tarnished seams capturing only the quiet current lapping and soaking dirty steel embankment along the river’s edge beneath the elevators and rusted railway overpass.. listening as if the very markings and where they were; was the point we reached. But the difference in the stories we want to tell and the ones we hear ourselves tell to others or even the stories we tell to ourselves are not the ones that actually happen but the ones we hope get told about ourselves. And from the dragged busy avenues Elliott’s is lingering, scorching, scrapping placed black glances at the difference which came in-between looks all around; when his body was found; so the driving but squeezed remains that forms the murky waste, leaking out, resituates away from that easy smack-like wake from motors fishtailed in two sets slipped through to the ends of the river not only smaller than we were before or within the mainstream surrounding, but finer in every such note and so much more perfectly in slow-mo oddity than the overgrowth of foliage, and into that which will be told. Has ever found thee exact sounds so singly in the noises as that whispering... and where it goes when pulled without hesitating, you know in the rifts against echoes dribbling up to the suspended girders crossing the murky rivers to where the old muffling coursing veins, ripped off in visions and the anticipations and expectations in your head… ever even came so close to so close to the conclusions? Yet in the swift side-vanished sky like wet pavement but wet against the embankment, it dries on in an afternoon of no humidity…. finally evaporates, over and over lapping different intervals, the ceaseless figuring where the world, where every second instantly goes, dried turning distorted there in the levels marvelously skimmed amidst memory; stones worth plucking and thrown just over the very edge and almost displaying the wavery stain the rotten that seems brilliantly with near looks at the river, as the thin air carved upon it, and the little slick gleams of algae and smooth enormous stacks billowing so repetitively with sad-shaped exhausting… and tough cracks and windshields of broken cars, cranked glares near hard looks; as if the science ever inside of them literatures of our fantastic drag towards them knew with impossible expectations that gets pulled away from oh how I suppose this sort of thing is supposed to go; and into the very real dream the poet could have reasoned, to go… Songsmith sung that ever-longing undone; for an explanation,– finds that long lost answer and with that fled so so long so so long ago to thee ends of so so far away… and unravels there … over and over; at the metal corners of the enormous sections of the state of the proverbial peaceful miniature edges running beside themselves; that enormous scraping, listening to him around the uneven like dark shadows at the weed cut-up back shoulders that fall apart further in the seams above; sitting where split beams violate visions through these white streams careening any which way upon an invisibly shaping formation and coloring the ever-bending turned like a spoon round into a bowl of water; that ruptured crooked, flowing impression.