I really wish I could use my arms.
Fleeting circumstances join forces to contribute meaning to one’s waking life on a moment-by-moment basis. In the leanest of times, those moments come few and far between. But if you’re lucky enough to string along multiple meaningful moments within minutes of each other, you might get headstrong and crave even more, creating an imbalance in the miracle mindset and setting impossible expectations for yourself and, indeed, the whole world (at least as you perceive it)! The whole world, damn you! Expecting a higher miracle-to-moment ratio leads to unhealthy thoughts that develop into undesirable behavior, its entire purpose to create miracles from thin air putting karma in jeopardy. Karma’s in jeopardy, people!
Can I at least get a pen to put in my mouth and try scribbling on the wall?
I miss feeling literate.
Obtrusive flickers on sultry skies–
who makes them, and what’s the deal?
A thread can weave a coat,
a person can build a library,
a consciousness can dismantle matter.
So, why the insistent lights?
It feels like a plea for alliance.
Are we meeting up with our cosmic brethren
once and forever? What will it take
to bring our existence to the galactic standard?
Disengage distractions devised to disrupt
the true creative process–fragment output
and label it in as many ways as possible
without waxing trivial.
Choices dissolve ambition and the joy of making.
Then time comes in, the ultimate limiter
of consistency and connectivity.
However minute everything may seem,
there may likely be reasoning
behind even the most pointless roadblocks.
GO TO BED
is what the oppressor tells its obedient tenants.
I really wish I could use my arms.
I always wake upon the wrong side of the floor.
When a brand new idea greets you–
out of what seems to be thin air–
it feels as though you’ve just
brought a new child into this world.
It’s an uncanny record of your existence
that has the opportunity
to be perpetuated for generations.
The freeloading, lance tossing, hand jiving, bank robbing, heavy lifting, double dipping, chain smoking, dry heaving and life-living individual spent his time in the service of other people, content to take a backseat to the callous know-it-alls who tossed their rhetoric around the block in bite-sized snippets designed to appease the masses and challenge nobody while making a big stink about absolutely nothing.
Our hero (of little merit other than existing and rubbing noses in their various messes) felt that no awkward position could upend his potential as a beacon for human improvement in the face of an ever-widening fissure that threatened to wreak havoc on the lives of those who’d become uncomfortable in their mundane rituals, and his efforts would pay off sooner than later, believe it or not. Monetary compensation would be nice, but he understood that his reward would be more significant in the grand scheme of creative endeavors, a lasting mark on the face of what would soon be called the Canon of Collective Creation, curated by none other than the forlorn dish jockey who spins yarns to pass the time while he hardens his hands under scalding water in the kitchen of a high-volume restaurant on a Saturday afternoon just after the brunch rush but right before the dinner rush, where there’s still a decent contingency of people streaming in but even more making their way out because it’s no longer fashionable to sit at a dirty table twenty minutes after the server dropped the check.
But back to the matter at hand:
we must find a way to figure out
the internal mechanism
that allows us to be creative
for longer than four seconds at a time!
Five seconds would be an improvement,
though we will certainly settle
for four and a half if necessary.
Temporary insanity paves the way for innovative dramatizing, and the function of all those waves colliding seems to be inextricably linked to the number of molecules contained within one jar of honey. A single jar is all it takes to begin a revolution, though often times it’s shattered and gouged in a counterproductive manner. Why we must take two steps backward after a step forward still eludes me, though I suppose we like to hunt those impossible answers and pretend that the horizon holds them all, a wall of color that dissipates and leaks inspiration when you get nearer (but holds answers like a sieve holds water), lifeblood for the essence of creativity; infinite and intangible yet tantalizingly exhilarating.