which turns into all the time but I’ve got cracks and splinters and holes that see through to the other side where everything is groovy. Grass is greener they say, it’s fine to say things to please a crowd unless it’s a crowd full of Nazis or career politicians. Leaving the comfy place to go to the scary place to get to another place where I’m the leader, the conductor of this strange orchestra, I say when to go, when to stay, when to repeat that line, and then we can all look and say, “isn’t that something that trees do?” Jean jacket menace with insignificant dreams (they’re all significant if you remember them), and cream colored cardigan waiting for a lucky lottery ticket, so one day the waiting is plated in gold and not rotting. Leave this place better than you found it, but how come that’s just not an option when everywhere you look there’s havoc? Everywhere the sky is screaming “you’ve violated my space, now you leave me with Industrial Revolution slime on my cute face!” Be kind to others. Forever people thought that being kind was some sort of grassroots campaign for poor folk who can’t afford being mean. Listen, don’t read this for sense, heck, the hand and the heart are in 2 different time zones and rarely get together for a drink or 10. When I’m happy, I’m happy, I can’t convince you that sometimes grass and pavement feel the same to me. Happiness is a funny song, it plays for some at the brink of catastrophe. Mine plays like ta lazy melody, searching for the next leading tone and then ahh… resolution. “Try being like him, try doing it like her, look at how the birds have no judgement,” isn’t that the ideal Jesus human strong boy? If we all can’t agree, that’s fine, just leave me out of the vote. I’ve got my own government of the soul. No winning, no losing, only celebrating. We mourn for lost time and lost money, and lost friends and family and land, and we grieve through every stage of dream, of night, day, and between, and that’s good! Who told you everything doesn’t deserve that sad song? I can’t seem to notice the difference between a stare full of purpose and longing, and one that wasn’t even directed at me. This is what I need, doing for the sake of doing. Like God. There was no purpose for light, but doing in itself is a form of magical realism. We can celebrate that! Don’t let the whispers of others sway you from finding the Big Bang God complex. There’s a room, in a big house, full of windows, full of light, drowning in light, no ceiling, no sky, forever creating itself, forever forging new hallways and passageways and doors. Dig yourself a sanctuary, cry and sing and dance and yell and tell me you love me, tell me I mean something, soothe my insecurities… secure in these… secure in trees… see cure in trees.
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