…because it will just flow out.

…because it will just flow out. Like water, like liquid, like the ink from squid did. Signs of fear, signs of response, posture of repose, squeeze open, the bellows. Scene the say, and sign the second sentiment of succor. Sicken, search, sigh, and stake.

I’m like Jimmy da Lips, and his favorite lips loosener, Moon River.

Ok, study group back in session. We have been stalling out a bit. And that’s cool. The recent days have been filled with nothing, and it is deafening.

What sense of the five would you choose to lose? I vote, Bob.

Meandering, meager, merger, metastasize. The big C, the leaf fallen from the tree, the pee, the waste of our generation. Mickey’s a mouse, and I’m a louse, and I have bugs beneath my skin. But my cat has it worse. Poor bubba.

Second sight, up all night, can’t see the sun for morning. Left it a while, a while back, found head full of beetles boring. Boring beetles, boring beetles, boring beetles, boring beetles, eating their way to the back of the skull. Everything starts at the eyes and ears, sinks in, burning through like potent acid. We burn away in the face the of the world. The endless bouncing, reflecting particles of electromagnetic waves, cooking us, battering us, baring us to the bright death of dissipation, dismemberment, vaporization, atom fission, nucleic abolition.

Doesn’t make any sense does it.

But that’s alright. It’s a kite. Doesn’t matter what you think, or what I think. It matters only how windy the day. And the strength of the string.

“I sure wish this fever would go away.”

“She has no idea how fast it goes.”

Loosen up Lucy. Leave the luck lady behind. Little late Larry. Try to mind the minute hand.

 Because it will just flow out, like dreams before coffee. Like advice before the blame. Like evidence before prosecution. It flees, and we are refugees forever. Moving ever from home to home, from identity to identity, from love to love, from rainbow back to rain. Because it never stops. The words, the voices, the snap judgments, the fears, the aspirations, the recriminations, the finger pointing, the finger banging for that matter.  It is effortless, and without choice. It is hell in heaven. We dream we’re awake and return to full consciousness every night. We snore through our lives like great mutant elephants striding in a herd through the savanna twilight. There is Sven, and he sparkles.

Because it collects in a pool. It flows from higher to lower, from higher pressure to lower pressure, bringing wet, and collected debrie from a thousand million hundred buttery fly wingbeats. It is spell corrected and pulled over for a roadside soberity test. It is booked, printed, arraigned, and released upon its own recognizance. It is a map of a globe projected upon a two dimensional surface. It is false, it is lies, and garbage companies named Lies. It is picked up each week. And then dragged back into the alley to wait another week. It is blather and chaos. It is incomprehensible. It leads with affixes and begs off with suffixes. It pretends and loiters. It cons and reveals its game. It knows, what the knowing know.

Feeling flight, the flightless revel in the strong stream of the surreal. When you throw a penguin in the air, from an airplane, it suddenly sees the sky as the sea. Flap flap, spin dive, swoop, poop, splat.

Kettle cool, simple style, whisper loud, all the while. Screaming screech, porch door slam, that woman, done left her man.

Moon River.

Hold a candle for me, and let the hot wax run. Down your sleeve, under your clothes. Feel the sudden heat, and instant cooling. The sticky crackle of solidifying steaming streams.

Sigh.