…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.
