There are some mornings where the buzzards have no shortage of dying energy to feed upon. I'm listening. I'm stammering. The blocks are stacked one by one within the next, abiding to the formations of the grid. Shuffling through street names and slinking between alleys and walkways. Dodging back and forth, trying to forget. We try and try again. Scraping metal to the cement rock bottom and scooping up enough dust to rise again. There have gotta be reasons to continue this childish pursuit of living. First, a meaningful breath and a view beyond wonder. Next, the expansiveness below and everywhere else, all fluid as the car spins and hugs every turn in slow motion, speakers blaring abstract tones. I had all these fucking movie ideas and my hands were consumed and my brain was a distinct form of useless and if it wasn't for that inner gravity, my slipping context would have lost pace with the earth's rotations.
Then you could've witnessed a man being thrown off the surface of the globe like a guy tossed out of a bar, obliterated by time, surrendering to the indifference of velocity through space.
But now I stand by the seashore bedevilled by the confusion of symbols and signs. I'm caught rejoicing in another matter, handing out crustaceans as offerings to the gods of order and pull. Meaning, the best I have is a free-found ancient shell of confounded hyperbole and articulate banter that can only exist because it recognizes the profound nature of things. Grounded in a peaceful awe and strong respect for this combination of wonders, I'm allowed to freely pursue grander notions in exchange for a humbled paranoia and semi-serious empathy. The wheel rolls, mountains crumble and apparently the sea drops are all different if we look closely enough.
