The Drop

[brianisett-blog]

How well can things go for you? Some people will prosper: don’t make eyes at them. Anyone, really. If their gun shoots off and almost hits you, then you best watch them. To prosper: kill something faster than other people  are killing it. That is yours.  That is not something people can take away from you once slain.

Good. Good for you, Rocket Dream. Let the meagers ogle and take rare pity!

A few pauses  to let them clear off the soot from their dry lawns,

inhale, pause.

It is the shock and awe of this Prosperity that brings us all together. Reinitiating launch sequence. We have real need, rhythms of need collapsing like a deck of cards: twenty cards, thirty-six cards, 

Not to imply Prosperity would gamble. No. Not risking it. Find the no-risk path: sell Futures, own the warehouse with The Future. What is truth of price and circumstance if not Prosperity? No one can take that checked box back. That’s yours. Terms of service: the living and the dead,

Deck to Houston, We have contract.

Note to self: interns were disappointing last year, complained when not payed, less mastery of crippling legal jargon than previous year.

Ok everyone. The unemployed, the homeless.

Like, find new talent.

It is food for someone, it is life unburdened somewhere that slows the rocket  dreaming.

29

[brianisett-blog]

When do I arrive somewhere beautiful? There is no money there, thank god. Maybe it isn’t possible to find the hot slate and granite rocks of that river. To find an alone atmosphere of hard simple work, early mornings, coffee and a blank page. What continent and what constitution can I call to harbor? Quartz that I loved in childhood, heavier on my heart than the blowing papers. A life in wind is a continuous life. Watching any nameless tree, I am jealous for wind. The sun remains long enough to keep her leaves green, which the wind dances in a summer of small adjustments. A tree for alone and a tree for never quite alone. A tree decides. I realize there aren’t places I can expect the crippling silence of a tree alone. On a warm rock I will pick up smooth stones like a child and the thought is wind. My distraction will struggle to tuck her wings back under black elytra. I cannot tell how good or bad. Like old films where people move too fast, fall down and pop back like black and white rubber. How good is that? How beautiful? The etymology of “settle” might yet change. That is a promise I make to myself. On a ridge above some bay or sunned valley, I would manage to be ordinary, manage to be less.