In Uncategorized on 100611 at 0713

Caffeine again, unclean again… who says we ever are or were.  My mother must have began my life with passing me the formulae of moods and costumes.  Everything we ever do is such a switch.  The trick is to channel it, to not allow life to be a guillotine and sever us from normalcy, but if we can, to enhance it all, to press the switch and say, not snooze, say, haven’t you things you’d really like to do?  Hasn’t life been dealing you a deck that seems stacked with twos not tens, no queens no trumps, no pieces of your costume?  Until we go to our occupations naked we will always dress in something, lest you are dealt by an autocrat a uniform, and still there is your hair, your necklaces and perfumes, breathmints, blends of teas and tattoos.  I live for variation, so I lift my aching pate off the pillow for one last peal and say “aha”, isn’t this the point at which I steal my day from fate, from sleep’s allure?  O sleep, I challenge you, don’t drug me or I will drug myself from you!  O limbs, awake, o spoon serve me my mush of health, take tonics, fake my levant, there always-or-never is a fertile home, it matters little which way the body wants me and my Jew genes to go, only that I give the stupor given to me by my mother (still she sleeps thru it, o, see, it need not be solved, but she’s gone soft and fat, ten dollars to bet her thyroid’s going to give her up), give my composting torpor the proper fertilizer to stop its trapping net of fungus and instead sprout some cotyledon, o birth of what will take me with effervescent lift of daylight to grand productive height, not the workworkwork busy bee of slavery (which anyway is nice, for the sooner I have built my sparrow’s tree may I encounter leisure and begin some other sort of productivity) aye but the lift of creativity.  Aye the height where one can suitably see all the choices unfurling in front (and anywhere splay’d, even in reverse) of me — limitlessness, aye that is life, aye that is tools, the woken morning mind, the harnessed dream, our bookshelves sorted over hours of black and white slumbering miasma, so comfortable since it’s cleanliness, but only with levant can you actually read or write with it.  I should often nap and drug, to fix my mires, bounce off each bog with pecks of berries, plucked with soft assiduity, not squished or stolen, o, taken carefully, intentionally, and thankfully.  O magic medicine, I give great thanks to thee!


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