Why is something that is an annoyance a “pet-peeve?” When I think about the word pet, I actively, lovingly touch fur or watch my cat (my pet) do miraculous things. Peeve is peevish with agitated reactions or just a complexity for a constant state of being in a realm of annoyance, meaning agitated. It feels like a collapse of two extremes of unrelated emotions, since I never want to pet my peeve. Especially when it is isolated with a dash in between, I kind of just want to either ignore its buzz or just whack it like I would a fly. “Pet-peeve” is an idiosyncratic, neurotic, passive aggressive want of attempting control of something that cannot be controlled. Even as dense as a Germanic language, English still ends up being as stupid as its formulaic gratification of being right, better than… The compounding of two unrelated meanings that are juxtaposed, and are separated by a simple dash, or without, suggests, randomness, a coinage that survived the stage of gossip in a pre-existing internet world, these words that historically symbolizes some kind of “this occurrence” of bringing together a verb/noun with another verb/noun, “pet-peeve,” a reactionary attack to I dunno and I kind of don’t give a fuck on its etymological existence of how it became established from possibly being slang to accepted usage. All I need is a door with a knob to turn open, a physical door, maybe even a window to crash parachute on concrete face down, to separate myself from whatever it is that annoys me.
*** This title makes no sense. But whatever!
The esteemed regard
estimated in a held possession
of precious numbers…
Stifled in its infinity
a box, stilled, contained
with desired importance
so cherished in great value
Fire spooked my desires
balked flames of wilderness
Dream into a flame
that fleets towards an edge
that shivers strong in the wind
the desert’s dry wind
Ready to mean
Ready red feathered herring?
Since I’m not a magician
I’m not going to rob you with illusions
alluding to what miraculously went missing.
Since I’m not a magician
there’s no glittered confetti
at the end of each act
since time lacked any patience
to steal your heart or mind away
you might want to depend
on all the comparisons
you were told would
make you subjectively better
and then call it FACT!
In the perpetual hum for purposeful sound
in the perpetual sight of recurring triggers
in the cerebral cortex where it all begins
rest, and arise in distortion, I’ve located
the injury that can never heal, and has now
grown into a germ, a seed that multiplies
that yawns at its clones, admiring its progress
reverberating proof for its recurrence.
Disguised as neurons, spreading its message
holding the nervous system hostage, it clings
to the mind and develops a language, its own
trapping the heart of memory, its function is to
inhabit, to encumber, to ill assess. I’ve discovered
when it became The… It occurred simultaneously
with the struggle for words to dissect the point of
these proofs, but my discovery was too late, The…
created its very own elaborate function, a syntax.
They tell me there’s still some purpose for its existence
an invisible membrane, which when made aware
acquires a self conscious bruise: a quick kill for a study
of overreaching steps, spent too much in a cocoon for self analysis
falsehoods for comparisons, error messages prompting no end
never having a place, a cause as faceless as an unknown not.
And like the study of broken, it still makes a whole.
so touch, gulp, then grab onto anything
anything keeping you still alive. With this point
reach for something else other than infinity
my fingers cross as we begin to drown for branches
they grow old reaching parallel but never touching.