It was for pure benefit, to earn a reward if one is spiritually confined. Attaching machinations, some apologetically lazy, others vindictively profound. A current is always flowing, wet or dry, searching for spaces and time that it will never fully see. That comes from the privilege of settlement and experience, and why everything that travels within range, I choose to capture for my needs. In that regard, I am a taker, but not quite a thief. For, my customs are merely interpretive. Woody, Jim, Mike, Biddy and whomever else… are always open to being shared and pulled apart. In fact, I am sure that is the way that we all prefer to live. Leaning on a hard, grey wall connecting under the racing street, jumping higher, between staggered trees, before the humidity goads another branch to snap- as simple as an insurance policy that has an infinite term and is never afraid of paying out. The arenas were now more like border highlights, the edges of my limitations, challenging all that I had most recently learned. It was a time of forecast and friction, the autumn of the day. The centered masses were drifting separately, some nodding off inside of the cooling tunnel, that would be one erstwhile conclusion. But the frontier was immaculate and golden, finding the undulations of my webbing nervous-yet- unimpaired. To author another variant of utopian description, meant to do so without harboring a reflection, up from the ashes, there could not always be a beautiful hint, but by the lemon yellow streaked call of tomorrow’s capture, the pressure would return upon the favorite son–pitted against a shadowy foreground of cursory glances and cascading preoccupation-for the first time–I found the dotted glow of the idling boundary to be a more profitable listener–gusts and stitches -searching for the aberration that lies awake.
