Blue Owl
S. Washington
The days all seem to start out the same way. Same intro; same cup of coffee. Same view of the same people. Admittedly, there is some comfort in that familiarity.
But change is more fun.
I guess maybe that is why there is always that push. Because laurels aren’t meant for resting. They are meant for pasta water—we just call them bay leaves when we do that. So let’s get something cooking, yeah? Maybe even incorporate that low hanging literary fruit I just picked. Mash it up. Let it ferment into a higher proof. Or like me, decompose slow at the back of the fridge, forgotten and unpalatable.
Mix up the metaphors. Shaken, not bacon. Squeeze out the gooey center. Because that removes the poison. For a little while, anyway.
I think the train of my thought has derailed. Maybe it fell victim to that moral conundrum: a rumbling literary train is heading down the track. One very important person might read the words if the tracks split one way, many more might read it if they split the other. Which way do you flip the switch?
It’s funny how the very moment I started that previous paragraph I heard the clanging bells warning of the approach of an actual train. The manifesting vibe must be strong today. And that in itself leads to yet another moral conundrum.
Hey universe, some boobs would be nice. Maybe a nice conversation that doesn’t revolve around the fact that, yes, this is a real typewriter. And no, I am not H.S.T. Or even a wanna-be, although he remains a large influence on my intentions. I’d much rather be a weird homage of sorts. Stealing just enough to plant the seed of a new take on an old experiment. Because that is what “great” artists are supposed to do, right? Steal the better parts?
The only other option is to get caught up loathing the fear. And that’s just a little too serious for a fox who enjoys the simplicity of the ridiculous. Or kicking tin when not too busy chasing (his) tail. Or doodling new shit, just to push the art…and the words…in a new direction.
The world was meant to be explored. Exploited. But not in an aggressive way. More in a gentle, “just the tip” brand of seduction. Fingered—not like a sweaty slide at the back of a high school dance. But more like gentle pads lovingly tracing a name carved in marble.
Because you take from here, slide it over there, and shake it all about. And then suddenly something new arises from that shift in perspective. Old has its place. But new is much more seductive. Enticing. The siren’s call of something better bellowing out to the wayward traveler.
It just seems like I am forever stuck in the in-between.
Maybe because I tend to hold on to things far longer than what could ever be considered healthy. An emotional hoarder of sorts. A fox with an ever-growing collection of brittle memories. The ones carefully guarded until the moment they are yanked from the wank memory bank and splattered on the page. Fodder for just another post. Or drunkenly scribbled image.
And then right back they go, stuffed away into the duffle bag of experience. Crammed back with all the other dirty secrets. And sticky regrets. A guarded collection forming the imperfect scaffolding supporting my wobbling contradictions. The unpredictable foundation always threatening constant collapse.
Always one kiss away from disaster; always one bad decision away from something good. Confused and conflicted; exploited and emancipated. Just a random collection of good intentions doing his best under the skies of a dying Michigan summer.
Rambling, nonsensical words today. Probably because I am nervous. And that’s not an emotion with which I am particularly familiar.
I am hitting the road after finishing this. Heading south to repay her that debt of artistic support.
We will be in the same room.
I doubt she will want me to kiss her.
But I am sure as fuck going to give it a try anyway.
Because who knows where that kiss might take us?
