Four Pikes, a Wreath and a Skull with Blue Ribbon

I want you to, pinch me. Looking at the faces of people doing things that make them feel alive. When they are pinched does it produce the same feeling?? Pinch me. Smile, come and pretend it's the remedy for a restless life. The longing, the need to provide that star inside with a black back to shine against.

The sky’s been rubbed too much by a red hand. And in the process got wrinkled and bumpy. There’s so much said in the sky, but age restricts our gaze to only side-to-side and face-front. Not down to the Earth or up to the Sky. Those wizened lights have eluded my purview for about ten months. Shouts in silence, the ancient echoes given over and over to the planet’s previous custodians.
Have they listened??
Does it matter??

“Took a couple of Vicadin and knocked me out.” Well that can happen, but tonsillitis is a bacterial infection, not viral. Learning everyday that movement can change big things. Because there is only recognition for big things. Never the hummingbird or the ant. A piece of sidewalk was coming up in a Queens’ neighborhood. Four men sat outside for three days with rubber mallets and pushed it back down. All day they sat there, with pure concentration. Accomplishment without reward, small and insignificant, yet allows the ease of walking.

The pee of a 1,000 men are on the walls of that urinal. And they all have a life or an organism to share. Sharing their ideas and their way of doing things. All unique and possibly pathological if they weren’t sterile. Still have another’s pee on clean things is not always welcome or required, except in some places.
For example, my friend and his wife make their own soap and one time he was using a glass jar to heat the lye and it shattered. He had to pee on his legs to stop the burning.

Inconvenient truths are a matter of perspective. “I can’t see the train but I can feel it.“ It is the essence of judgment to acknowledge where we are standing when the bomb gets dropped. We feel the heat of emotion. The blast of repercussion. Rumbling and growling in the mouth.
Perhaps it’s the destruction of the words, blown to smithereens. Or the other way around, the words of destruction. The train is coming. I see it. My hair in the air, arms outstretched. Hearing the whistle, the oncoming light fuller. Round the bend.
I lay my ticket on the tracks and walk away.