Asunder. The sea quakes open and attempts to swallow all marine life. “You and I are like when fire and the ocean collide”. Underwater volcano. Lava and water makes steam, threatens to dry up the ocean or light it on fire. There are no firefighting fish. They’re all reading books while wearing glasses. Arthur Read, perpetually in 3rd grade, always in a time loop. It’s Groundhog Day forever. Chris Brown never forgiven and ostracized forever. I can never consider myself a fan anymore, despite how good the song is. True colors. A Bob Ross palette I cradle in between my forearm, bent elbow, and upper arm. A shot for the pain. By needle by mouth. Two if by needle, one of by mouth. Emoji answers. Telephone ringing. “Three Miles Down”. All roads lead to Saves The Day lyrics and I cannot map it any other way. I bought a Snow Patrol CD around 2005 at FYE at Willowbrook Mall. I remember the store was playing a song from it over the speakers and I decided to buy it. If I had listened to that same record.
Still virgin morning, after twilight moon does not set even though we are transitioning from night into day. It kind of dissolves like a Tums in the Pepto Bismol sky, and knowing how we treat Mother Nature lately, that comparison might not be that hard to believe.
No, but I’m picturing dark blues coming to from God’s dusky fingers. That yellow orange purple glow. Clouds mapping their own artwork, trickling down pigmented paint from the brush made of Pegasus-hair. Artwork of the Gods. Always changing, never the same. It’s Freestyle Love Supreme in Nature. Even before the final shard of light has departed and melted into a clear, darkish blue sky of night, the moon rises up from it’s hiding place and shines down on all of us. How I would love to know the moon in the forest, in a desolate location – anywhere that’s not the city or suburbs although – the moon hanging over the Manhattan skyline does make for a pretty mental snapshot, jumping off the diving board into deep thoughts about life and love. As if Moonstruck could still be a story told today. Maybe it could, I’m not sure.
The moon rules all menstrual cycles and ocean waves and I love it and am in love with it. She is wise. She’s seen a lot, allegedly a broken piece of our own planet rock. Forever entwined in orbit. Chewing gum.
Flesh eating slug repellent. Harry Potter VI movie marathon and all that is good in the world. Warm and fuzzy. Slimey the worm. Sesame Street, Oscar the Grouch, RIP Carol Spinney. My grandma would have been sad to hear about it. She died 15 years ago. She no longer has flesh. She was cremated. Dust sits in a metallic sacred jar, blessed by a priest, approved by God, in the cemetery. In the mausoleum. In a small stone-slabbed space with her name and dates. And that’s who she is now. To me she is flood of memories. I regret not having grown older with her. 14 is way too young to lose your grandmother. So many things half-realized, then later suppressed. She would have been a great person to talk to as an adult, after I had lived some life, which I have.
A pound of flesh. Shylock. Merchant of Venice. No blood. Just the pound. Good thing Shakespeare wasn’t a science-fiction writer. That tan, beige, grey slop. The biggest living organ on your body is your skin. Lives and breathes and heals. It is nature, but can also be pornographic. It can be sexual. And these two things don’t necessarily have to be related. Flesh on flesh, we are one true being. Two souls trying to kiss. Two psyches trying to see inside the other. But not with eyes.
Shiny metal capsule, man-made vitamin cure-all, explosive nugget of death. It is golden, it is hard, it is unsuspecting death. Grim reaper shows up and hangs around all over America. More than Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy, and the Easter Bunny combined. Except when you die, you don’t rise up again like Christ. You stay down. In your tomb. King Tut and the Egyptians didn’t have AK-47s. Imagine if they did. They would still be around today and I would be writing something way different in hieroglyphics. Money as power, violence as power, death as power. But power changes hands, priorities change. I suggest listening to Oso Oso to cultivate some dreg of inner peace. Start there. Podcast history. What to do when the internet fails? I hope that never happens. What if the things we put so much faith in and hold so close to our hearts disappear forever beyond our control? Digital hoarding. Late night television laugh track. Running around in circles listening to Sunny Day Real Estate. Jeremy Enigk as patron saint and voice and spokesperson of the angels. Car dealer marathon. How long can we go without pulling our hair out? Dancing with the comb as my microphone in the mirror. These are pure things, pure memories I like to think everyone has done. Burgers on the grill flaming up. Gun violence.
Spilling down the front of your shirt. Water leaked from laughing. Uptightness dissolved like paper origami birds in sugar water into uproarious laughter. HA HA HA! Milkshake through your nose. The two tunnels filled with ice cream and you are a Carvel with a cold. Kick your foot and down goes a coffee can, spill the grounds all over the outside. Do what you can to sweep it up and turn the can upright again.
I spill my guts to you. And whatever momentary reprieve it may bring at me getting this thing off my chest, admitting attraction. It is aways followed by doubt and dread and regret. Traumatic emotions swing through my body like Spiderman using Red Vines (not Twizzlers).
An old man works in an auto repair shop. An oil change goes wrong. As he’s spilled the oil which ignites faster than the speed of thought. I am thinking now. Sluggish and yearning. I will spill.