Some different Roads
Keeping tops on. Shemozzle. Groan of the easy monster. Something about keeping Track. The purity of form and how it never changes even beyond the concept of growth or gain. But looking at it too much as if it were a battle. Holding back (a Battle) Forcing change (a battle). Resisting temptation (a battle).
Or just a delicate balance of all the above. So, behind the eyes the spirit looking out. Where’s the base? And is it ageless? And what causes the thickness of the sap like slowing down of the process?
So much for thought.
No one to see but yourself though. All about tapping the source.
And yet no one has a knife at your throat.
And yet, was there naivety in the early men? The primitive philosophers of the times.
So natural and new and yet more jaded and tired than I could ever know or understand. As scratch and scourge to break down or break into that ancient channel of thought they were perhaps unwittingly hinting at.
Ah yes but true, the brief mortality of it all. Grumble, grumble from the first day you found out about it. And a whole life running from it. Patter patter of small feet on the big road.
A spark of deep understanding welled up from her eyes and I was reminded about my childhood dog. And then crash thump. My liver spoke. And crash thump it was indeed time. Crash thump again relating to all the new strangers in his life (empty beer bottles crashing to the floor).
Lifting up now. Even twice. The Wind in the sails as it were. Simplistic. Exchange. A change. And the launch is to be complete said he. Writing the keywords in the thought bubbles.
Thank you, sir. I’m composing myself.
He’s composing himself.
Or becoming Linked into those old roads again. He never left them. He wore them down thin back in the day. So much back in the day, framed by the hills that were even closer through the clear winter air. So clear. Magnified.
And back to that gravel road as again, small plumes of dust trailed behind unthought of or even unnoticed.
This was his preparation. A late starter, nevertheless.
Click click, if only you could have photographed it.
If only it could have been passed on somehow.
It’s as if all had merely been a warmup. A long time brewing.
But good in the end. Made to last.
So high in the sky, on the plane (another road of sorts) you were so very vulnerable. Wars were closing in. From that great height you could see the ant like dots of crazy armies acting out the strategies planned by the horrible beings we the people had voted into power. Into power. And I hung up there for that moment. That pregnant moment yet also in great movement. Following on with no return
There had been much floundering before that too. Half-hearted ideas. Cul-de-sac gutless. Self-pity parts leading nowhere. (Road to nowhere)
Words were at a lost. No repetition. No repetition. Fancy Pants couldn’t fuck with time.
Dedication was no longer a catchword.
You had become such a beautiful loser and it turned into a way of life.
But it was cramping his Style. The tangents had become stagnant.
While others were hammering out a living that irked of purpose.
Depth of purpose.
Heavy eyelids and the conscience of it.
As the rain falls in stormy spasms so too the waves of inspiration and dedication to save the world.
Banging out products designed to fool yourself into thinking you were creative.
Driving within the tiny vision of this day. There can only be felt strong limitations. Focal area pinpoint directed at tiny self. Biting your lip. It’ll just have to do.
After all, this the struggle to keep the spark alive has become momentous so very momentous.