Thursday, April 18, 2013
Big barrel bright bird broke in the black bleak blear of a beery evening spent moving. Small capacities, large capacities - room for everyone in the center of the mind. Alma y Cuerpo, truth and circus in the cussing tread of now. A black hole? So much color. A name for the future? Too many nights for noticing and forgetting. In fog, falling for fake fighting faithless fate in fugitive hours and towers like penises here to launch and posture-pose. I exhaust the softer roads, to go hard and wake up and explode.
To dance is to be wise. And to chance is to have further eyes, sometimes, than today. Are you content watching the ascending bird decay? There's mostly erupting, interrupting, and friendly corrupting left to welcome. But you can still choose to open elegant forevers and shake certainty like a stray blade of grass from your skirt.
If you can't start a battle of flowers, start a revolution of showers of love. There's no fiesta like your loud and confetti-frosted self-talks. No parades like the ones you dream, full of brights and blanknesses.