Struck down by hand and kicked by foot. Violence pervades my psyche right now as I imagine bungee jumping from the highest peak of the Himalayas. Sno-caps in movie theatre thin cardboard boxes before tickets cost you your firstborn child. That childlike sense as a kid of everything being right and good in the world – It is illusive perspective, yet better than the alternative. Raspberry red carpet rolls out like a tongue of a carnival arcade game, or the last hole in a game of mini golf on the rooftop of the Rehoboth Beach boardwalk, where I begged my parents to let me tried shaved ice because the picture on the cart looked so good. They never relented. I never had it.
Struck, like a shock. Like a “I-can’t-believe-this-is-happeneing” flashpoint light bomb tear gas nightmare. Terrifying PTSD nightmares with no end confirmed. Searching outward, never ending. I see the flat palm, like Batman hitting Robin in those memes. It is swift and decisive. Like a karate chop hand cut across. Rolling dice on the pavement. Moving the wind with that chop. It’s not nice. It’s rude and unkind.