origins

In discourse analysis, some things understood are no longer gestured at aloud.

This morning I talked about patterns.  Residing in the conscious, subconscious, unconscious.  The cosmos itself, a pattern.  Little wonder there in the world of ideas.

When, at today's end of day, l lost my temper over crew inefficiency, there must have been a pattern.  What did I say?  That age did not matter.

I come home and one of the dogs let out before closing the day, I hit.  Where did it come from?  This ugly hand, this very ugly head when I become taut as guitar string.  

I know:  in hiding is a very angry young man.  Where did he come from?  Why?
Tonight in bed, she heard my thoughts, as I walked around them, echo on the walls.  

Was I not harsh enough?  Some colleagues remarked, too considerate.  Lash someone if need to. What do I know, what do I know?  When the waters are calm and the guitar strings 

are loose are beautiful, I close my eyes.  The end of day.