i find flattery as fleeting as i find these "feet." walk, they said. they taught me to place each foot in front of the other as it was the "proper" way to do things. i do not remember it being suggested that i use the hands to aid with movement. i do remember it being suggested that the hands were connected to the arms which were for the purpose of assisting the balancing act being done by the "feet."
whatever. my feet suck but my hands are alright and if they broke boards surely their force could hold me up against some slab of concrete which hypothetically lies angrily beneath.
far off the shore, the diamonds can be found. i've been led there before, in dreams; this timeless visit a blurred memory among the thousands.
next to the shore, i kick my feet against damp sand, and wonder as the grains separate and stick, falling at an angle most suitable for my eyes. the night is cool, as is the liquid breathing between my toes.
light years away, a star twinkles, and another, then another, and before me now: a symphony of infinite lights.
air thick with the aroma of salt invigorates, freshens, and joins the other sensations in a whirlwind of euphoria.
the sand flies up before me in an unmistakable rhythm and fractions of a second pass before i notice, before i realize..
i have become a song.
and without the burden of mass, i float carelessly into the abyss, twirling musically through galaxies of purple and blue.
underneath certain bridges flows water that reeks of bodies. i float above, pondering the number of marrow-filled bones swimming underneath. i wilt, as i always do, and i turn the other cheek as the sting of misplaced hands collides against flesh. i think of jesus then, and "my god, my god, why have you forsaken me?"
i spill my guts to the underworld in response to their attempts at making me succumb to their vacuum of pleasure, of loneliness; and i glare in the face of danger, remembering gaia -
and i resent these misfortunes, hastily placed words, and dying evidence of faith as i fade into the unknown, waiting to wake up -
waiting to playfully punch royalty in the shoulder as i laugh at her ongoing prank;
waiting for anyone,
waiting for the joke,
is it so easy to silence always moving lips,
so simple to let death dissolve on the tongue
like listerine breath strips?
but i do not, find myself unable,
i am unable to do most things.
and in those moments when i disappear and it all becomes neutral,
meaningless or immensely powerful;
in those moments when i cannot differ and it seems highly irrelevant,
what it is to wilt
and what it could be
'don't think about tomorrow', some cheese someone said that time, whenever, whatever, live for today and shit. that was what he had been thinking in the moments before it happened, and quite possibly what he'd been rehashing during every prior mistake he'd made in his short life.
'live for today.'
it very well might have been the worst advice ever given, but partially because of its popularity as a phrase, and mostly due to his own inner glow of certainty such exaggerations tended to induce, he felt positive about this decision.
'yeah thats right, live for today, i can do that. what's tomorrow anyway?' he wondered.
and then he wondered to who he was constantly wondering, as he seemed to feel there could be some sort of response. a sign. an answer.
'this is what men do. i've got to be a man about this.'
the old phrase came to mind followed by a quick memory of a moment with the man who had planted him deep inside of his mother:
'be a man son,' always smiling, though. 'put your chin up, be a man.'
the warmth came again, along with the certainty. it must be right. this is what men do.
she was climbing to the top of the slide when she felt his eyes resting intensely upon her. if she had lived to tell you, she would have you know that this feeling was no kind of metaphor. she actually felt them; a feeling for which there were no words, just a sort of knowing.
the air here thickens as it is quickly rejected and exhaled; rubbish. around my disgust, it gathers, forms, and pollutes. this distance is sickening, and cannot be conquered, despite the fact that mechanical wings could close the gap in mere hours.
i dream. still, the similarities between those rolling hills and my own are far too few, and thinly spread. i am left with a desperate thirst as i awaken. the overbearing feeling of separation persists, and i ponder whether, somewhere, a hillside also finds itself strangely barren and desolate.
it couldn't be found in the files where it had undoubtedly been stored. just a band, hidden, kept behind an invisible screen until it was needed. just a band, known, and planted. for had it been marinating with me all along, the shock of euphoric audio might not be present. fitting, the content written immaculately, rhythmic prose which roll off the tongue intertwined with sincerity and some strange familiarity, upon which no finger can be placed.
st. augustine seems to shout at me, despite her slow lullaby-like melody. st. augustine acts as a nurturing mother, concurrently loving and correcting, rewarding and chastising. she brushes the sand away from the path which lies before me, she gives me a shove, and she lines those los angeles freeways with gold in preparation for my arrival.
the city lights sparkle that night; a billion fireflies against the midnight sky, and i'm flying, simply flying at ninety-five miles per hour down pacific coast highway, route 1, where earth meets ocean, where the weak are swallowed up and the strong learn to conquer the great blue beast.
sepulveda boulevard; where the gates of heaven open and i ride into some fantasy land constructed for me. sepulveda boulevard; where the inhalation of salt scented ocean water invigorates before swiftly, almost instantaneously, taking breath away.