The river to the ocean goes/a fortune for the undertow/none of this is going my way
Been a long time. I am desperate for things to grab onto me the way they used to do. I am also old enough to know that I have to make that happen. Anger is a guiding force in my life, way, way more than I think it ought to be. There comes a point where the words we write down and the words we say and the words we read and the words we hear cease to have meaning, but here we are and just gliding through the days that pass through our hands like water, where before we gripped them like stone, like mountainous croppings of having and happening and wondering and finding. The phrase "city of music" means something, but I don't know what it is, yet. Silence scares me, a little. and, lately, it's all that I want. The country is running around with it's pants on fire, asking for matches, or a glass of gasoline to sit down in. Maintenance becomes impossible, so we just admire the damage from day to day, call it fashion, call it art, call it being fuckoff alive! It didn't used to be like this. Or maybe it always was. Time is a flat circle, though, and this too shall pass, and we with it into who knows what oceans of being. Can't wait.