frankel's muse

and there wasn't a whole lot of meaning to be found around nowadays, it had to be forged. In a time of limited pleasures it seemed that life was increasingly strange, if not love, then drugs, sex money power, the world was only full of so many things, how many of them brought any lasting peace or comfort.

as if in the lasting, we could make it better, the best that I've seen is the acceptance of change, and of the impermanence of joys, of the give and take, the tidal pull of it all, sloshing the belly and the essence, the untouchable, but still sloshable.

packs of ciggarettes, drunkenness, the mad release at the point of orgasm, mach speed through a swath of deep powder, there was a relatedness to all of these things. A deep touch into the center of the being that said yes yes yes yes, this is what it's all about. Could microbes in free fall experience such joys as they were shed from birds wings, flying south? A kick to the pants of melancholy was to be a match stuck to the finger, lit one handed, inattentively.

ouch! burnt crisp skin, licked, slightly salted, the same flavor as overroast meat, this lump of flesh and bones was meant to feel free, suckahs!!!!

that's what it came down to, flight, joy, tingling sensations of love not fleeting at the scale of lifetimes, or at least the ability to make time stop, say, "rip my chest open" let the burning heart out into the water of this world, plunge my steam baked brain into the salty brine of positive emotions, come back gasping clean laying on the beach, hot and cold, skin peeling, still growing.

the one bird whispered to the other, "If I were him, I wouldn't think so much..."