Today, we have still-life bellies that churn.
Today, they run clear past us into the protection of clouds which we do not trust.
We do not trust that they know us.
They cease their forming.
In our stilted numbers, charts and disease DSMs, we malfunction each and every time we come to the same fork in the road, plundered sand before us that doesn’t
Reach.
Invite.
Commune.
We have lost all connections to the prime mover
By obsessing with success and obsessing equally with failing.
By being equally obsessive failures and successes.
By failing to successfully obsess.
If we could reach into the genuflections of our pocket, and climb aboard the mast of the prime mover that sits in our bellies, prodding itself with its own idle time, then we could jump start the clouds and drag race our oblivions into each other, properly awake and with each and every of our so-called diseases riding shotgun into the light oncoming.
Trail-Blazing
-----
M. Lucia
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