matchbooks from nameless dives emerge as diminutive epiphanies.
Catcalls: customary in a city that never sleeps. Desire braids fury.
Each flint is a key to a would-be flame. Flourish of smoke escapes
like ribbons pirouetting. Gilded by vanities of youth when sleep
seems vulgar, ego flirts with inevitability—the underbelly. Horror a
carnival mirror: marbled human distortions.
Instead, imbibe the medicine that we are divine beings worthy of
serendipity—peace, at the very least. Jesus, Buddha, Allah, Shiva,
Gaia, magical bloom, et cetera—we pray to the same source—the
cosmic undertow. Knowing, they say, is half the battle, but when
will we practice what we preach? Leave it to us to fashion diurnal
disasters.
Matter of fact: nothing here is solid. Not our rickety bones, nor
our mortgaged homes. Oxygen, hydrogen, nitrogen, carbon—
our mortgaged homes. Oxygen, hydrogen, nitrogen, carbon—
we are the stuff of magma—starseeds. Perhaps in sleep, we can
render ourselves sacred. Quell the notion that some are destined
to suffer while others revel in riches. Remember, abundance is
found within.
Some call it a kind of verisimilitude to subsist without pleasure—
simple pat on the shoulder or a half-hearted embrace when the
body rings electric. To know the depths of loneliness, rub two
sticks together at the bottom of a murky basin for a spark that
may never happen. Unearth the map of storied constellations.
Vibe the unknown. Wager that fear is not our common dialect.
Xenophobic tendencies only yield calamity. Yellow, black, brown,
indigo, crystal, rainbow: such majestic frequencies. Zoom further
out to commune with the moon before heralding our extinction.
No comments:
Post a Comment