Important Thoughts

The latticework of you is all but completely invisible. From humble protoplasm the fluid threads of your body weave in & out of the morass, constructing bone and marrow and viscera and cells and nerves and muscle. The volition of the new creature extends in natural vulnerability to the sides of the womb. The fledgling thalamus drafts and rehearses protocols for securing food upon eviction. You're provided with a name, free to keep without financial promise. Manners, ethics, and the laws of the land, popular and obscure, benefit from expounding and the latticework weighs the odds & consequences they suggest. Puberty seems to arouse suspicion and concern regardless of geographics, ancestry or any personal inclinations whatever: the body is inundated with new hormones that challenge and undermine in discreet and profound capacities and the mind secures a private location up there, behind the right eye, approximately. Hoping for relief from trespasses and a plot of land to call native, the soul is tasked with learning an original vocabulary and making it coherent and distinct from those of its elders, neighbors, descendants. The fine music of you diligently jitters on your cables, on your nerves, the bent/pulled strings rehearsing their own quantum/telepathic yoga. Harmony settles with the gravity of a foldedleg-Buddha. In all of your days & decades, a voice will return and flee according to the whims of madness and inexplicable insight. You will know disquieting hours when even your breath is undernourished and your entire wardrobe seems defiled by corrupt circuits leading to your brain's sight. Dogs will cross the street to avoid your path. Doctors with thin, dull faces will have less warmth than Dali's Visage... Retreat to isolation. Drink your coffee, take your vitamins, smoke as is wisely therapeutic. Lay down the few words that tumble up from interior shadows: the fractions of your life are slowly wed in conglomeration, the fomentation of its borders forever vague, the homunculus individual pacing the cavern of your heart. The latticework of you is all but completely invisible, yet the orange conspires with every breathing creature in the fate of its success. 



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I don't have to sweep behind anything. Or under anything. I don't have to wait for anyone to finish what they're doing or deal with a sudden surge of dishes that've accumulated as if by some inexplicable capitalistic voodoo. I don't have to make conversation with people I don't particularly like. I don't have to listen to conversations between people I don't particularly like. I do have some nostalgia for the close of any shift, when the sudden break into freedom was reliably met by the gratification of the senses, so neatly punctuated by every opening door. Alas, I'll try to make due with the doors I don't have to open. Call it the Federal Emergency Act to Repopulate Ancestral Dwellings. I think there's some weed left. And I don't have to go to work. 






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