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Timothy Resau: What Is It?

Image: Unsplash, downloaded ( 18.06.2022.


Monday's mother, whose peering sentences no one wishes to hear, finds you pondering your work-a-day existence, knowing that this is not the true matter at hand, knowing, farther, there should be a more advanced way ... a more advanced direction ... a greater reward, let's say, for someone with so much intelligence as you — but still you remain, stupor-eyed and bold, having been seen in too many so-called poetic bars over a brief weekend that flashed thru your super-drug induced vision like a re-occurring dream in an old horror film, but you know there's no escaping your middle of America nightmare; so you stoop even lower, experiencing the exact same terror that drove your deluded father to his early heart attack grave — oh, too early within the darkened morning to push yourself into the Beckettesque streets, seeing the beer-stained faces, entering the snot-stained trains and buses, leading hungry passengers to a hell that's been bought and paid for — silently those voices scream, only the blood vessels grow taunt, like stiff pricks out to fuck you, as the moments wear on and on, taking you by the heart, until you begin realizing that you’re walking toward your own heart attack grave, knowing that what you want is a greeting of love ... love that appears like a phantom in your Oh-so damaged mind ... still you keep asking: —- What is it?.. — What is it?.. but nothing more appears than an outdated illusion, playing a madman's game with your very sold-out soul — so you duck behind a pair of legs that you tell yourself you love, knowing those legs are just an excuse to carry your thru the everlasting night — blind, blind, oh blindly the servants of your washed-out dreams beckon; locked behind the sub-conscious, where nothing is defined but the sheer desire and effort to escape — the need to calm and put away those bitter faces that flood your mind of all its redeeming beauty — and you know how pointless it is to say that the ignorant support your constant storm, giving you reason to shake your trembling fist in the face of God, but in return, you're paid off — so the wheel turns, and you, perhaps afraid, stand, spinning within the chrome spokes, watching the pitch become more intense, the water deeper and so cold, so alone — Yeah, yeah, so who cares?.. you mumble ... since The Almighty God has left you stranded on the wrong street corner, looking like the freak you see and know you are becoming — you've thought of going after Him, but you know fucking goddamn well that you cannot stand the speedy circle thru which He travels — those flashing lights ... electronic and mechanical noises leave you frozen in a freezing land, smiling for the sake of smiling, but muttering: — I've gotta get outta here, gotta get outta here!.. but what earthly vacation would take you far enough, for long enough from that which is killing you? — you know that there are always walls, chains, and devil-like people trying to kill you no matter where you flee; so your desire for flight appears nothing more than a small abstraction on the ripped canvas you describe as your life, a diversion where you center your most enchanted dreams, pretending, even to your slender-assed self, that once away the return would make things better, if not bearable, that you'll be in a better frame to face the strained Monday morning, as it rings its six AM alarm thru your dreaming ears — yes, you dream that once away and entered into a natural setting, that you'd never return to the childish inanities that drain so much of your day — you'd be mad to return, but then you very well might be feeling that a day is a very personal matter....


Hands held tightly together, freezing with a pain that illustrates a need to touch, or to ask for rewarded love, yet no body appears to render a longing that is and can only be given by another—

one filled with a superhuman understanding and compassion — a mounting intelligence, if you will, that would bring a supreme intellect into a lasting relevance, leading you thur the doors of perception and into the halls of Heaven, but each human being you encounter seems to pull you away from the natural sources of your waning little life, breaking the normal mind against all that is natural, by insisting as tho it were a substance or product to be sold to those interested only in cheap-ass marketing and sales ideals: — And, you ask: — Who should ever weep within a natural loving retreat with another who shares the longing which is most holy and beneficial to all of equal importance?

Oh, just tell me!


About the Author: Timothy Resau’s Prose & Poetry have recently appeared in Abstract Magazine, Soul-Lit,Superpresent, Anti-Heroin Chic, The Poet, The Decadent Review, Green Ink Poetry, Red Wolf Editions, e.ratio, The Sparrow’s Trombone, Better than Starbucks, Fictional Café,Poetry Quarterly, BlazeVOX, Ephemeral Elegies, The Metaworker, KGB Bar Literary Journal, among others, and is forthcoming in Origami Press, and Poetica. Find him at


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OIB 73342230946

ISSN 2459-9379


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The image of Quasimodo is by French artist Louis Steinheil, which appeared in  the 1844 edition of Victor Hugo's "Notre-Dame de Paris" published by Perrotin of Paris.


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