DEATH WARMED OVER

or, my life…spent.

That last revolution left me dazed. The same scenery flashed and repeated in an orbital rhythm. My environment moved too quickly for me to identify solid form and everything around me slurred into a meander. Each day turned from brief respite into swift departure. I felt my gut at my feet and my head in a fog.

Towards the end, I heeled my words into the ground in a desperate attempt to persuade the fucking thing to stop. I hung on. My knees were raw from fighting the spin and the tops of my shoes were caked with the filth that surrounded my craft. Finally, I let go.

I was spun out, stopped; a playground massacre.

What a sight, covered in dust and dirt, sweat and blood. But, I was not alone. I managed to attract quite a malignant clutch. And while I lay there, words were unwound and lifted from their purpose by nasty little hands and then, repeatedly passed along, shoved into pockets, and spent on cheap ice cream concessions.

Now, after a few months in circulation, it is impossible to determine that they are counterfeit. They all spend the same, right?

I wrote that a while ago. It feels different to me now. Different, but still...relevant. Well, I am off.









p.s. I am at a distance; you are in proximity…but here, we maintain satellite and If you sspirit through here, “Thank you.”