By: Patrick Michael
So as I psychoanalyze and redefine and sift through the influences and the nuances and the extremities of my body, I fill the void with the only force strong enough to transfer folds of timing and clocks and watches and necessitates to be here now on time.
So arbitrary, I feel, this training of my brain to take the path of least resistance so that I may find my place to think about how lucky I am to be here.
Save my route for something to be used for a re-do, an attempt to reconnect this strange system back to an economic benefit to the planet.
Sure we make it from A-Z just to make ends meet, but why?
I refuse to just make piles of trash that make their mounds on the surface of just one layer of the lay lines.
I’m not just trying to get laid in with that stack;
nor am I willing to decompose with the landfill.
I am not garbage.
I am worthy of at least recycling,
there is more to space than just waste.
So I attempt to defy gravity and oxidation factors
and natural rust forming habits that add my sum to the solution.
Regardless of the problem of our modern crisis of dystopia.
I feel something more than a dawning…I am no duck covered in oil,
no call me dirty,
I’m not going to contaminate anything.
I refuse to be wasted information on the deluge of cold storage.
I refuse to call my writings eternal as well and
while I recognize this contradictory parable,
I know there is a way to persevere through this stage,
this set, this platform, and this vessel that runs through the structure of….circulation.
I’ll stop intruding on my own consciousness with Freudian slips once I stop being disturbed by my discovering of potential happenings that I tend to find with this unfortunate chaotic presentation.
The evidence tells me that more often than not, the grossest, most abhorrent possible outcome is the most common.
It is a rare find to prove that most of speculation ends up being a mass hallucination, based on emotive suggestions and very few options.
That must be the nature of…variables.
Absurd assumptions however do not support my intuitive reliance on chance.
As with most vehicles of study, the progression is imperfect and the results are constantly changing; with this I am relieved because it gets exponentially better marks than standard meters and basic measures.
Canon notes, picturesque scales on the bars, lets bring it back to the front yard,
I’m done playing the worlds tiniest golden viola on the embassy deck.
No more confusing interludes that remind us of the penny skippers, or the striped flag waivers, or the plugs of grass that patch in the fibers.
This is a recommendation, a service call, a reference, and a chapter, not the resolution. Refer to the pages lost in the great divide for components relative to all reserves of charitable natural cycles of thought.