Arterial signifiers link scenes together – totem – book/shirt/stone. It’s a kind of nostalgia, a kind of deja vu happens more and more as plots thicken…as it reveals itself unto me. The name on a precariously placed letter, a bus ride to New York, the palm-feel of rose quartz…was it the last you felt? Where are you now?
They caught you running in a desert. Corduroy and rolled up shorts settle in, ergonomic to hips, loose pocket shirt slips, reveals shoulder reveals the space between: wide smile, chin, and neck with sweat and protruding tendons, a topography that would ensnare peripherals a mile away…the “U”-shadowed cervix, gleaming chest plate carrying all your forward momentum into sophrosyne sun…
This exercise was anything but prudent. How could this otherwise featureless terrain present danger?? How could it ! how could it, I’m free ! Oh! I’m streaming tears of joy again it’s been so long…
Harmony is rampant in this environment is deep orange sand, red and sinking sun, mother and son deer feeding on cactus flowers, flitting swallows dance for grasshopper bounty, there’s safety in approaching twilight…tweeite finds beauty even in the most mundane – pebble – light angles – the back of their hand…what is this? Their hand dons a new dot looks familiar, but it’s never been here (?), never been so small, never been a single point. Focus zooms almost uncontrolled to the extent that we are standing there on the back of your hand is a second desert is a second sunset and stars follow suggesting your Jupiter eyes are ever present here, now and forever.
Will it float? Idle chatter…idle hands collapsing, commending devil’s work…it floats. Wind bulges sails this charade does more than float it’s filled with hot air and gathers no moss and is the size of an overturned hatchback on the Taconic. Pig-headed sycophants appeasing megalomaniac by-products of capitalism…of that devil’s work run amok they mock the pain others feel so fully, those others aren’t looking for escape (is an illusion), those others are looking for a moment to relax, to feel safe.
Meanwhile, mainstream articles milk bastardized truths they seek profits from and regurgitate tarnished silver linings, silver spoon-feeders filling stomachs with long-dead butterflies, he ripped their wings off and threw them, crippled into Acedia, spiritual sloth; apathy.
Acedia is far from this sacred desert. This harmony is too dense for the selfish and supine. These blind members of the Tribe of Dann – these overtly objective patronizers expecting handouts – expecting material status and taking up all available space in this four-bedroom apartment at five a.m. ! It’s five a.m. stop playing fucking Neil Young covers ! Go to bed !
“It’s New York!” the bro voice enters…oh this motherfucker…
“I AM FROM NEW YORK, GO TO FUCKING SLEEP”…bougie fucking entitled piece of shit selfie king from Florida film hack can rot with his fragile masc ego a city block wide…King of fucking Bushwick………….
Five am the next day and the banjo porch is welcoming is warm is transient train hoppers and their faithful one-eyed dog Rain…shhh…stay in bed, this is peace. I have work in Rye, I’ll see you ‘round sunset in Prospect Park.
