They are the soluble
The diversions upon which we waiver
The trees of the Tornado cities from which we prospered
Oohing and ahhing as we overlook the waves of crisis so beautifully laid out before us.
Crystal blue death
Organic meth pumped by pedals as we push the shoreline to its limits
Addicted to relevance and what it looks like
Contrary to Charlie who explores it
Always coming back to where he started
Or finished
It’s too hard to tell and I am not sure I care enough to but I am glad that someone is actually traveling
Most people are just moving
Not delving
Just doing
Most people are me, writing words that make no sense
Until you dig into them
Precisely placed they dissolve into an intersection
The dissection of the crash that is about to happen
The simple crossing of a street sustained in a wash cycle that never ends.
Spinning and turning.
Straps of the bra that held your breasts so perfectly now entangled and tied up in knots like twisted wires
Strangling your favorite sweater as if they were murderers
Or drunk fathers
Hooks with no loop holes
Unless you are God
Then the picking is ripe and the baskets heavy
Confirming creation’s damnation
We consummate the end on our knees and backs
Rendering what we stood for obsolete
Pulling our teeth from the glass on our bedside tables
We fill the holes with silver pieces that were never ours to give
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