The Hold of Intensity Pulling Tightrope Wires Under Ticklish Feet
Of all the the white striped dotted dashing white lines underneath me nothing ever feels like a pointer, only a friendly reminder that you’re headed in some direction.
I find poignant in a bottle of beer, a glib smile from my flattest of mates, and the indifferent sighs of a man I once saw as the future of my intellect.
Even as the most brilliant of us die up and squeeze their ideals into little bottles of contradiction and cynical fruiting labors of rotten green apple concentration all smooshed into the souls of ranch hand boots I find it easy to step outside and breathe in the aroma of sweet decaying old. Here in the mulch of last years remnants I stand tall, hoping to see what most can’t, praying to at least get a pic of what they’re in turn hoping to.
Up Next: Big Ol' Flag