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A final smoke and I'm sure it's my art, pretty sure, blow a smoke ring to prove it but the heat's just come on and nothing's coherent besides a calm glow or two... One's burning a comfortable orange and another glares in calculated hues, colors of my own designation, in fact... So I just inhale and exhale as usual, overlook the rings and clear up the ashes, make funny faces as I clear my throat and breathe smoke, same old fascination sucking up to fiery chaos and as I watch random signals I blow smoke to make my mark, just dissipating and settling as I think of its movement. Dust monster I moved earlier is a relic, brown dust characteristic and clinging to monitors; I wipe with a finger and the monsters begin to fall and wait until I find them later lingering on jewel boxes... So precious, every last drifting particle of pollution waiting for its chance to twist stories and impart spin, quantum relatives come over for a visit and I'm at a loss to hide all the evidence in time... Losing loser, t-shirt as proof, but I meander on (and on and) and find everything waiting in perfection when the right eye's peeking, left eye's left looking straight ahead, amazed, and urging world to right itself, make sense again, but left wanting and undesirable... Waiting and waiting for recognizable patterns, but the patterns are breathing too and they can't wait... |
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i'm against a homogenized society because I want the cream to rise. Robert Frost | ||
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