SOC Writing _ 9.3.21

 Wound up

And ready to strike – the grandfather clock sits quietly in the lounge – there is no breath here – not even the curtains move – but I am moving I am always moving – watch the tall grass - watch the quivering and be alert for the movement of the spring – this DNA blood line of creature braying for the blood - of the old amoebas at war with each other in the deep ocean – here in here was the way the world began – war and cooperation – but war? Where do you come in? A faulty gene – a sequence spilt by a split second alteration of conscious? In the pie form 3.14 recurring thoughts as vast as the sand on every shore make up the melange of every movement – the confluence of ages back when the swing of the axe and it blunted from its true cut – the fragments left have become the main stay – the main attraction as I weave in and out of the circus looking for ways to balance yet another ridiculous act to get another gasp from an already stupid audience. Stupid – dumb – need more jazz, more spazz to feel alive when all the time there is more going on in a dandelion – the poultice of green mush cradles her foot as the bee stung last breath – ritual heap of stones and sticks, flowers and words tumble over the little creature who never had a chance to not put his abdomen up and be taken by that larger metatarsal – in the older times when the sky said what was coming people were less anxious than now – less bandwidth taken up by worry and war between parties – I wonder what relationships will be like when I drop all pretence and be far too honest – feel at home in the cells I have and divide them off one to the other – begin again in real time – drop judgements – only for the Lord they said, but did it all the same – I am awaking now to hear my very name – called in the last back to the beginning of time.