and not flailing around, as I sit here, not flailing. The ink in my pen not quite catching the paper. The sun, the only thing keeping me from complete despair. This place, sometimes a prison, other times a playground. I dream of movement and elasticity. No need to eat or sleep in dreams, the air gives sustenance. On the other side of the fence, father teaches son the ways of the lawn mower. He says “it’s all about the smell, when you smell that you know it’s working, but when it starts smoking you gotta stop.” I feel that in my heart chakra. I get sentimental about faulty power tools and patriarchy. I’ve got the garden beds and shovels, though sometimes the heart yearns for a noisy, spiny machine, the theatrics of it all! I’ve filled my vision with too much glowing rectangle, I had to uncuff myself from the slot machine. And I will say I do feel freer. Bored at times but lighter I guess. Everything has sooo many properties, qualities that were just overlooked. The squiggles of the universe on full display. A weed wacker sounds off behind me, or maybe a buzz saw I’m not sure. The shed door opens and closes indecisively. We build up and tear down, us lovely humans, we’re quite good at both. I myself, a picket of the fence.
lonelypistachio.com 