This is Minnesota. Cold hands, especially the backs. Icy everything. It's hard to move. Yet it is in movement that heat is generated. I have these black gloves with the finger tips cut out for writing. It is hard to type with them honestly. Subtle differences in how they feel. Micro-messages to my brain. small perturbations, pushing me off course, causing typos, slowing my flow. But this is Minnesota, don't'cha know? I proceed with hindered flow. I write it out. I've got my beverage. I've got my classical music. Now I just need to create. My brain is icy. My mood is cold. This is Minnesota. A place no one should go.
Yeah, there are strange creatures creeping through the woodpiles. Yeah, there are important things to be discovered with our eye cameras. Opportunity grows faster than weeds and poverty. But I want to sit down now, Carmone. I need to rest these invisible gravity forces inside me. My inner atmosphere is too unpredicatable right now, and I need to still myself. I take my chances with the forces that are chasing us. I’m too downtrodden, Carmone. If you want to go on without me, that is fine. I understand. You have much to live for. You have many reasons to embrace these opportunity sparkles that perpetually barrage my vision tablet. I’m losing the will to go on. People jump to horrible conclusions that are only partially true. They activate their detachment protocol because of the stupidest flaws in my spontaneity mission. Leave me alone, Carmone.
The people are getting nervous, aren’t they? They are biting their nails and stumbling out of their sleeping quarters at all hours of the night. We can’t heap blame onto their plates, though. Why? Because there are crop circles in our corn fields. There are toe-tapping atheists clapping their hands at our crumbling churches. There are butt-fucking viruses mocking all our pesticides. The people are worried. They rest their hand on their stomach and pass squeaky gas out their overweight asses. But we can’t jump on their blame button. There are governments passing out drastic taxes. There are indoctrinated psychiatrists prescribing laughless capsules. We wash our medicines down with lactose-free milk. Yes, even our cows are altered from their inner-most neurons to their outermost cow-ness. If you want real milk these days, then get down on your knees and pray that NASA will find cows on Mars, and that you can somehow get to that organic cow-tit before corporate America does. Hurry.
We were sipping on the vine and there were famished soldiers strumming their chords and letting them ring like gentle sirens. I’m counting to three. Tombstones block my view, I’m trying to see the horizon. Apple trees block my view. I’m trying to hide from search planes. Streaking comets guard my view, I’m trying to see my home planet. I’m sipping on the vine, it’s scrambling my mind. I'm counting to three, then I’m setting the glass on the table. It’s dripping on the dirty floor. I’m swinging in my hammock, trying to find my inner child. I was listening to the soldiers play their guitars and sing their protest songs. They were guarding my view. I was trying to find my inner child, who was trying to hide from his outer-adult. Everything I tried failed. But I tried.
Tough mudders shock the sprocket shoppers. Running through the path resistance. Smiling smugly at the bumbling bobo drinking bubbly. You elbow and nudge through the judicial sludges, past the jovial judges. Tough mudders, apathetic mothers. You topple out the melodious spout. You correlate the lady's fate to her shuffling dietary strategy. He's doing backflips in small rooms without damaging the chandelier. You marvel at your ability to spell "chandelier" on your first try without using spell-check. Now you are muddling tough through the mud. It's a tough-guy town and you are tying your boots. It's a town full of tough women, and you are letting your beard grow. You are fumbling through the fridge for some bubbly. You are constructing a funny argument for your jovial judges.
I'm here negotiating my early release, trying to get the gadflies to leave. Trains shuffle along the track. Gadfly passer-bys smack their snacks. Eastern fishermen attack the math. Burly world-openers draw the fire back, inhale me in the swirling womb, push me to the outer moon. Coughed out feelings choke the fool. Burning questions smoke the room. I'm here negotiating stupid concepts with neurotic walkers, trying to get the gadflies to leave in peace. Melodic mothers swallow their babies with nursery hums and sleep-inducing song. Rain comes and goes and the passer-bys don't know which mood to throw. Sunshine cracks the surface of the sky. I'm here scratching the silver shavings off the lottery tickets of my mind.
Gold-diggers laughing at their shaking pan, sifting sand from yellowish nuggets of hope. Gold-diggers with the slippery fingers and the sweaty crevices, keeping secrets of speculative spots and digging holes. Gold digging old men, with a long shot strategy to compensate for their histories of lethargy. To compensate for their social rejection. To bury struggle once and for all under a mountain of quick wealth. Old unshaven men still angry at their drunken fathers shaking their wishing pans, gazing magically with their omniscient eyes. Today the sun is out and they attend to every sparkle. Scrap the gasps. Shrug the shoulders. Toss the sand. Refill the shaking-pan. Refill the hope chamber. There goes that damn woodpecker again, pounding away at his tree.
This is a roving captain infiltrating the fatherland. This is a machette guy on the motorcycle, sneering at a passerby. That is the magnet bride encircling the wounded knight. Infiltrating the warrior zone. Obeying the blowing winds and the hidden declarations of the motherland. “When something happens, seek me.” This is the musician wannabe limping through the foyer room. Guitar strings are pluckable. Doorway dwellers step inside. Crouch. Creep. Sneer. Outcast punks are aging before my eyes. Raging. Fueling inevitable heartbreaks. Oxidizing desires and lubricating their trigger-happy hearts. This is the fatherland. That is the motherland.
This is the vortex. I’m slipping in to the fourth set. Swinging like a villain in the porch deck. Recreating myself for the hundredth time. Establishing my rule through the scorched earth. Overcoming challenges like a prize fighter. Dwelling on my failures for the last time. Embracing pleasures, escaping measures, pushing back the Bible thumping forces. Wishing for another prime. Hoping for a little time. Skipping out on banal social cohorts. Things are shaking loose out of their foundations. Traditions crumble down to dusty block things. I’m in the vortex. I’m in the fourth set. Drawing on my inner child hope-sets. I’m casting visions and I’m and reeling in realities unforeseen.
Let’s get together over tea and maybe we can talk this through. My sarcasm was meant with the highest intentions of love. Belief clouds cause real rain. Thought patterns drive real decisions, and I was just trying to make light of your impending doom. Theology is no laughing matter. Priest jokes are for drunken juveniles, not for serious people sipping tea. I post a comment, you respond in anger; then I defend myself. Things are complicated when they don’t need to be. Things are simplified when they can’t be. It is easy to splat-crackle on the frazzled cracker. It is wishless to whisper amidst the blended seekers. I speak too loud. You calm me down. I sip some tea. You strain to cause me pain. I shrug it off and now I sit back down again.
Fools! Fools! Marching in with tools and tools. You chart the course and measure the weather, and yet it rains and scrambles every attempt at control you make. It scrambles your brains and all your tools are silly and vein. It is morning, you plan. It is lunch, you plot. It is dinner, and now you count what you have got. You rub the belly. You pour the wine. You check your wallet and count your dimes. Somber merchants surround your table. Frazzled restaurateurs pass the butter. Don't you ever want to see it all crumble? Don't you get tired of the big dumb show? Don't you want your silly guests to go? Pack your things, people, the rain has lifted. Gather up your important clothes and scattered estimates. Plot out your stepping stone lives elsewhere.
Tribal chants bounce off the concrete community walls of this endless city. This endless destruction. This endless tree genocide that is civilization. Oh so uncivilization. Reverberation. Tribal encantations. Melodious curses pounded into the stratosphere with drums and wooden blocks. Terrified white folk quickly construct bigger guns and stronger shields. Tribal chants vibrate the authority structure until it crumbles. Fat women rush through the debris in search of ice cream. Twitching men dig through garbage heaps for old pornography, or at least, heavily suggestive advertising. SOMETHING that they can jerk off to. Broken white folk scramble like electrified zombies for fixes. For one more hit for their lame, ungodly addictions.
A jaded take. A busted rake. A winter wind from the brutal north. I'm sleepy to the bone. I take myself to the store to buy my specific brand of almond milk. Seagulls huddle on the tar, trying to soak sunshine warmth. I get my milk-like products and go Starbucks. Every optimistic minion is getting in my way. City planners ensure congestion. There's a homeless guy dozing off on a bench near the Starbucks bathroom. He has a coffee, so he's legit. I ask him if he's sleeping rough. He says he is. I ask him his name. I can't tell what he says. His teeth sabotage articulation. I ask him if he has plans for Thanksgiving. He says not now. I give him $12 and leave with my coffee-products. I get home and tell my wife all about him. We talk about how scary it is to approach homeless people and dream together about having homeless folks over for Thanksgiving. Then she says she loves me.
Yellow sky. Boy running down a hill. Smog world. City exhaust. Arm-pit air. Green grass for contrast. Green grass, treated to kill weeds (and anything wild, for that matter). Green grass like outdoor carpeting. Green grass to help us lie to ourselves that nature still lives in our midst. Green grass to help us deny we are killing the earth. To distract us from the reality that we are running out of wild space. We are running out of elephants. We are running out of glaciers. Yellow sky. Green grass. Boy running down a hill and out of time. Prophets condemn the profits of industry. Profits silence the prophets of God's kingdom. Yellow skies turning red. Green grass is dead. Small elves in business suits and paint brushes rub their brush along each dead leaf of grass. Boy running by. Running out of time.
I'm standing on one foot at the top of a hundred foot pole, arms out, balancing. I've got obligations nudging me here, life-goals nudging me there. I've got deadlines blowing from this way, addictions blowing from that way. I stand here, counterbalancing against it all, trying to get these projects done. I just want to be the best I can be. I just want to please my shepherd. I'm a failing sheep. I'm looking down at the distance. I'm anticipating a fall, and trying to discern if I can survive it. I'm wondering who I will let down as the wind picks up. I'm asking my network for help, and they are offering advice. The pole keeps growing taller, I keep getting higher. My legs and feet are getting sore. I can't hold this pose for much longer. I want to sit. I want to rest.