You can chase tornadoes until one catches you by the hair, throwing you up, straight to Major Tom. The better way, is to ride on the Hydra all night, until you understand that the Salem witch trials were kind of funny. You see, no one shares wine with Jesus, though we take of his body like hungry children. Here‘s what else: women no longer hide their dress slips in front of maestros, and men no longer stand up when a woman approaches the table at a three-star restaurant. It is all upside down when the water is quickly evaporating. Or something.
I am too drunk for this, someone says. I cannot identify the voice as male, or female. The same person goes on to talk about whales, and if they bleed, and is it cruel to want to be entertained by them, and it’s impossible to care about everything.
It came to me that I would much rather pluck daisy petals for an answer, than to approach a man with honesty. Though I always knew I was a coward, it disturbs me how this will evolve, and expand with time. No one has the patience to count the stars in my sky, least of all, me. What does it matter, when all they hope for, is to reach an inhabitable planet? Then, I say, but these stars are a part of me, and you must know them. When they reply that they are mine to deal with, I find that I do not know how. They present me with an obvious truth, and I annihilate them for it.
This place is cluttered, there is nowhere to rest my head. This place is a small one, I am a little mouse. I am the dust after a catastrophe. I write at the speed of sound. Tomorrow, I will understand what I read today. My arctic heart, my volcanic mind.