add infinitum (part 2 of particulate)

Why all this secrecy in the only land left with the only trees that offer only the finest santa rosa plums one could sink one’s soul into? The soul always begins at the enamel of the teeth, some part of myself said. I vetoed the thought. Back to the question, why did we have to hide our treasures? When sharing them was so much more enjoyable? What parcel of  drone intelligence in Afghanistan informed us to continue to hold on?  I mean, dare i point to the ground and meet eyes with my people to show how half of what we cherish and hold close to vest goes unused and rots between our toes?

Tonight is the same as a week ago. Forensics agents and yahoo messenger chat administrators  get drunk on insomnia. Graveyard hours give leniency to those who wish to have the fresh air and night sky and electric stars to guide and calm them. I set my feet to urban time. I see the junkies and locals steady mobbing the Whole paycheck parking lot trash bins.

Although I admired cold cases gone hot, I felt as though Forensics were passe. Standard procedure. The topic was of less interest to me in the new century, almost mindless. Many experientials and intuitives like myself were focused on precognition. Developing the sense. We hoped to locate ourselves either half steps ahead or behind law enforcement rhythms. Not because what we did was illegal. north beach beat adulators, and other sordid types.  Where we all were headed was all but certain (what some would call) hell.

by katya

I was still asking was there something going on?  halfway into the week. The lawyers and forensics had fucked up the whole scenario. Nobody knew what time it was. Nobody had any money left. And everyone was angry about the lies and deception. But nobody had enough time or energy to pull us out of the mudpuddle.

And I may have been ahead of the awareness curve, bulging back down, booty slump the chart produced toward some social science survey of  U.S. census citizenry, projected out of powerpoint to document awareness. As measured by hard to prove, easy to dismiss qualities or behaviors based on industry standards… as they cautiously evolved through the academic bureacracies to gain acceptance by industry leaders backed by and instrumental in securing ongoing public and private funding through grants and foundations, etc. You will be so fucked up trying to understand this bullshit! they promised.  Only for a while, they promised. Until you sign some contract they created. To fuck you. And whomever you’re fucking, too.

But we could blame the lawyers and the cops only so long, before we realized the deeper root of the problem.

This left us where we were. Flat-footed. Money made everything what it was, or worse.  Money kept the institutions together, barely.  Any revolutionary creative force threatened to gain immediate foothold.  Generally speaking.  An exceptional frontload washer of a maelstrom was imminent. The animals knew it. Killer whales rose almost whole out the Alaskan waters, undeterred by the opposing gravity. The sea otters turned and turned and turned, cracking shells together in cacophonous productions. Seas and territories globally touched and met and kept the electric circuit of our world whole, connected, glowing. Undisruptable. Unrepudiated welterweight champion of our solar system.

Throw your hands in the air, celebrate if you can breathe on another woodburn winter day in our increasingly spare the air day oxygen deficit-run you ragged kinda culture. Fuck! If you have asthma like many of us do, myself included, you might be getting worried. Secondary to secondhand smoke and chronic bronchitis, then fuck you feel the air or what is lacking in the air quality. You find yourself out of breath consistently and might sign up for alerts for spare the air days on your cell, because strangely your increasingly inhibited, shallow breathing coincides perfectly with poor index days in your local area. Fuck! This is not good.

Each breath like each meal, every morning a bit less nutritious than the last, it seems. So? Make up for it with the HFCS, it always fills the gap. The closer! High Fructose Corn Syrup for all! Like we went from the local deli of the eighties, to subway, all the You begin to worry. You don’t want to suffocate, eh? Is it a possibility? Well, can you get up and out of bed if you don’t have to?

I wondered about this from the moment i awoke into this fine cold for oakland with hard nipples for a winter storm-tested window. Frozen now thawing. For natives to this region the pain of the cold. Knawing. And my heart was hard beating for the memory. Oh, and the gaps between what i could recall. They would bubble and settle, like memory foam. the air slowly gone out of them. Back to my mug root beer. My sweet time home alone to myself, slightly on the beneficiary side. The asset of the balance was restoration of mental health.

k in red

I would have my converses. my all-stars on. black and white and just that simple. arguments may have gotten loud last night. but not complicated. simple like an air horn blast in your ear. well. through a hollow wall or door. this is low rent living. you know the deal. we cannot be sore. everything is built toward an early death of hard apartment life chewed up kinda living. Used to the give and take of taking. Oh, less the natural giving. Natural like breathing, of course. If you did not give, then never would you receive. Otherwise how would you know? how to cut it hard and cut it slow? Cut it deep so the shallows seem to be of commensurate kind of depth?

Had no one known a difference in depths? Well… you know the rest. So of course I was wise to the tales the oral traditions of dangerous acts and certain prohibitions… i was aware inside of me lay certain inhibitions (most of which i secretly hoped i could overcome). A childlike kind of desire came over me almost every morning as I awoke. So second nature I had to really slow down time – to a bowling ball release… (from a fastball down the middle with no sidespin). Plain and unaccessorized and hot out the oven.

Today was gonna be small as partly sunny. Large as organized unionized, pasteurized, homogenized labor. Like Oakland works and even on today, this k-day, this okay day. This say, what kind of day? hey! oh, right, taking a left turn on Broadway today. Say. Do. Bum a smoke. Listen to your heart. Faster then slower as you disappoint yourself. Then heat it up as you wax philosophical. Suffocating kinda fast on the spare the air day.

Feeling nautical. Enclosed. Embraced not so much. Traced now with the GPS on your android, checked off for awhile. Out of boredom. Change of style. Hiphop back to nothing back to hiphop. Play with the TV. Let her on then turn her off again. Silence the commercials and thank god you gotta remote. From the talk shows to retro tv; old episodes of that terrible show: murder, she wrote.

No remote access to your laptop. atop the tabletop. Time foams up like the air, the spaces in the air, the humidity after the ice thaw. The moisture in the place. The mould, if black, must be the worst kind in America. Basis: race. So you turn your thumbs around one another. Chasing flesh into butter. Not no margarine. Uncut portions may now be cut, in time like the cuts on your pen you made with whatever was sharp enough to make cuts. You forgot because you were in the blocks of natural inhibition amplified. We call these the ruts.

But today the sun will rise and fall and your chest will do the same. Your head will think the whole business slightly curious, all the way to half-baked aka insane. But no the sanity reminds you in the background. The foreground prone to quaking earth. The drip of clock arms shakes off the gravity and they will rise back until they peak above your head, where breathing is so easy.

Tommorrow at the mercy of the subconscious again.

Today I became conscious of the conscious objectors. And all foul political propositions which held court in the states for too long. For years.  Too long at the mercy of those who wish to burn wood inside their fireplaces. For fun. Not necessarily thinking they might be impacting anyone. Smoking cigars and tending to their hearths. Coughing up a lung, and further and farther from the earth.

Close to going underground, yet high from the contact with spirits never before seen (or seen only in dreams)…  Slow motion books, quickly and carelessly bound. The economic gradient in decline… (declination is a relatively healthy sign). Against the steep trajectory of the euro taking off. Take off your shoes and donate them to the Greeks. Let the dutch stop up the gaps and all the leaks.

Just like you, I’ve been waiting for this day.

And no, not just since last night.

When I lay down.

 The aforementioned statement is unsponsored, unclaimed, unadopted, and otherwise left hanging to expose and disintegrate into atmospheric conditions, and under no condition to be repeated, remembered, sued, reflected upon, or automatized unless a request is sent with alot of money to the author@

erotica in e minora all night loco to menana

She was a musical instrument when the fuckwas

k by k

m. hotel 2011

good. I swear. I would know! I had a moment a flash! In a secondhand reflection through a dreamy post mad love made embrace, head in the forgiveness of the goose down pillows we just bought together at the goose down shop uptown. You know the one. And my hair was styled that wild way straight  hair gets styled in a couple hours of heat and hands running through it, and the push and pull and slide friction of the strands against the century count thread white sheets.

I had her in my sights, and she always gave her all to the whole thing in an organic way. Down to the threadcount, the anais nin parfume, the sesame oil, the music, the candles, the all! She did me right, like i did her, too. All thats left in the wake of it are the images following lovely thoughts in my mind. I have us in a snowy virgin country open space I created; took the best aspects of different places we had hiked, set it to the perfect temperature, threw in some snow and an ocelot spying us from a nook in a nearby oak. Scratch that oak, lets make it a beech tree, ya, the kind ya find in deepwoods pine forest. ya. Well, if a beech tree can handle the weight of an ocelot…no matter.

No matter, cause when I went to embrace her in this wonderful place in my head, I really was embracing her right down here on earth in oakland california in this poor excuse of a mattress hiding beneath silk and satin finery. Deluxe moment in time! Holding one another exhausted in that wonderful way after it all, of course, and the dream i had setup perfect-like, such that the two synched up so nice! I blended it like strawberry daiquiris. Thorough!

I kinda got addicted to this sort of daydream a couple decades ago, after my best friend Virginia inadvertently got me hooked. She was brilliant! She had trained her mind to pull her away and dissociate into her waking dreams. And I was given this dance of day dream.

m. hotel

daydream #47

What was so good about this connect? What did we have in this way of coming together, that could connect us after all hell broke loose and the cow tipped the oil lamp and burned down the city for all intents and purpose? What was this fuck to her? To me?

Sustained attention. Implicit trust in a physical sense. What we wanted, each of us, the other seemed to naturally have to give over. Reciprocity. Open to flex the supple toned muscles and change direction, but subtle like the wind. You don’t hardly know until you see the weather vane turn, or hear it turn.  The movement occurred gradual like an Chopin nocturne unfolding before our conscious presence. No limbs getting stuck and pressed into pins and needles by it. Na! No falling asleep because its dull and senseless. Best of all, No one was forced to do nothing!

I was so turned on sometimes I crossed her eyes! I mean her seeing me so turned on got her breathless herself, and basically one could say her eyes crossed when i got off, or like I was by the ice cream truck as a kid, but only to watch the other kids delight in snow cones. It was like I delighted in them.

I think good sex was unselfish, because I know if I commit to a moment with someone and I’m only thinking about getting off, it usually won’t work that way. Unless I commit my efforts toward them, going down after they go down, or pinching nipples while they lick my kneecap or tickle my elbow or something cute like that!

Ya, mostly the best sex is the altruistic kind. That’s my take. Cause its not so much about two women being together, like alot of people think or talk about. Bisexuality is unmistakably less about gender than most. Though some people think the opposite. Strange. The best fuck comes irregardless of gender, age, creed. A good fuck could be good regardless of the happy ending, either.  My favorite lucky one will know this by the smile on my face when we are over and out like now, tired draped over one another and falling gently into the bed courtesy of gravity herself. Were there a happy ending for one and not the other? No matter. Were it a man, were it a woman? No matter; whom you love is whom you love. If you really wanna be sincere to yourself about it. Thats what i think. Don’t worry, my opinions won’t cost you nothing! Just a second of your time. All serious attention is rewarded, you know, its… karmic.

She became what she was. And this was a silent rule by which we both must abide: allowance. Letting your partner be someone and feel some way without constraint, and without fear of rejection. Self need not be self-conscious. We get to feel elated, satisfied, bored, anxious, relaxed, ticklish, sensitive, breathless. We let it happen. This takes time, really.   Good fucks deserve the time they take to get there. A good fuck wasn’t always so! Remember the discomfort as we learned one another’s body language and where to translate. Until we found that unique body vernacular of our own. Our dance. How we fuck. And when I say the f. word, i mean it as a term of endearment. The word is street, which turns me on. Cause I know the street, and the street is not always vulgar. Street is also underground, sharp cut, to the point, dangerous-like. Street is sexy. And Fuck is street.

A good fuck often breaks records, goes off the charts! Like magic! Sometimes we felt more than just two or three orgasms together, even simultaneous every now and then. Wow! Sometimes our cries came from somewhere which knew of past lives: a deep place within us. Yes, I believe in past lives. So sue me in the next life, if you think my credibility just fell off. I can still tell you about passion and compassion, intimacy through role reversals. I can still touch on the greater sexual enterprise implicit in some of our affairs. Some which front as intellectual. purely. some which sever themselves from any and all possible sexual context. Some which are devoid of tangible sexual reference.

All of which betray themselves if the right one comes along and offers the best fuck you ever had. Don’t you just love that moment? When the one who considered themselves strictly alpha, suddenly turns over in submission cause you touched them just that deep? Wow! Congratulations is in order! Maybe some martinellis and velvet cupcakes.  Those citizens who have long evolved sexually, know how to turn this trick. Some even seek it out, the turning alpha over like that. It can be addictive. They smile often when tangentially they connect or reconnect with such purists.

Well, my mind is going back now to this cherished recent memory I began talking about and strayed away from. She is pulling me back, what we have is pulling me back there all day long sometimes. Unbelievable. I’m going back there now, all the way, like I did earlier, arching my back over my heels to kiss the lips of the woman who waits for me and all we need are eachother in this moment. No drive bys.  No need for any man to come and take both of our blouses off,  pulling our tights down our slender legs. No need for anyone aggressively forcing what need not be now forced.

I remember the feeling in my lips. When she kisses me. I like it alot. Whose lips when touched with mine, her bottom lip pressing into mytop, and the whisper of a moan she felt and heard between us brought her eyes into focus on me, like that…its the best feeling to be cared like that.

I was watching some porn my friend had on the other day, no sound, just imagery. Guys like to do that porn backdrop thing sometimes on a lazy day. Then if something works out, that’s great for them. Anyways, in the movie the man had his tongue up in the other womans cunt and was working her this way after about twenty minutes behind herself fucking her slow then hard then slow… and this was all well and fine, but not really an attention grabber to me until the very same woman  was approached by a younger woman, looked like she was Argentine perhaps…. and wearing a tennis skirt and a collared summer shirt.

That scene reminds me now of what we just made here not long ago, somehow, the ginger approach, the empathetic looks thrown around carelessly, and especially the moment when she looks  into the Argentine’s starlight eyes,  before planting soft little kisses all over her face and neck, while the penetration she endured pushed her higher into the oxytocin dream, and closer to the girl.

I get to dream like that , sometimes. Like today. What a lucky day. Tommorrow has suddenly arrived.  The time dripped off and spilled away, water into light. Color into glass, then the stained glass is sucked dry of it, again. The glass is kinda purified, black and white like that… waiting for the color to fill her up once more.

nullset. of the interior. of some astrological signature. in some slow motion maybe wet. dream.

 I found this space today. You just cannot believe!  I rang you from there, but lost connection. I cannot say there had been one to begin with… the place is rather obscure. Confiscated by spirits. Surrendered to the moist, silent, dimly lit fate like stalagtites at the entrance to a cave. Like Plato once was. Just waiting for the light. Just living a half second behind the slowest known metabolism. Slow motion dreaming.

Im just dreaming… aren’t I?  Also, its complicated!  I think? Just because you were born into life in a certain position, with a certain unique astrological signature, does not mean you will become anything so aware or unpredictable as you were at birth. You gotta earn your fingerprint!  You cannot just ink it and get paid! Ink it and get laid! Anyone born into any sorta challenge, any sorta discomfort, any sorta imminent daily changes on average of noticeable atleast once a month knows you gotta earn yourself into society. Unless your cash laden, do not expect folks to blow sunshine up your backside! Sorry kids. No sugar could coat this sour gobstopper core.

Once again its about looking at the process. What a nice segue back to what we never really left. Fuck.  I am talking about what did not fall in line so nicely. Call it a spiral. A building block of life. Call it the car you were just driving coming at ya with not a second to spare before boom! Impact. Call it circular logic on a linear fireline. Basically; call her everything. And then some.

If you look real close you will see that not everybody got what they wanted, not every detail will be fulfilled to a symphonic flourish. Some dudes hide their great animosity. Some chicks apparently suffer incessant pms (and thankfully not you or me!) Her period, okay, its private, I know. I know! The feminists and N.O.W. are gonna fence me for this one! Five point restraints in my future! Hell, at least i can pray for pink straps.  I cannot plead out the freeverse excuse. Not then, not now, not soon, no.  No soft serve, no fast food, no microwaves here in this small quiet space I found to sit, think, feel, commit my feelings to soul, commit my soul to imprint, commit myself to printing draft. Legible copy. Then usually edit from there.  Often even the tenth edit will see my cutting room floor, which may be metaphorical but extant nonetheless.

Extant like a cloud. You know, ethereal space, semiprivate, semishared. Maybe about as close as a singular sentient being comes to feeling like a twin. I say maybe because i do not know (or do not remember) how a twin feels. I think maybe we lost her when i was born. Maybe I took up too much space or had too much thirst for this world. I can somehow see or feel half of her stripped cut and dropped without a second thought. On the great sky blue, an off-white spot. An assymetrical low volt light. Part of me forever gone and never remembered. Still, felt like a phantom limb perhaps?

There! Out of time to contemplate the greater questions… Our feet, our hands, they are calloused. Our hearts, the same. Still we move on like its the right thing to do. An accident? Creeping up on it in the oil pan dripline of a hundred thousand commuters mixed with tourists, mixed with you and I, mixed with the dense humid air of gulf coast side teeming spiraled shellfish and starfish — between the two or simply in there somewhere.

Then we must RUN! The anticipatory stomach nervousness mix and matched with adrenaline. Some of us may be in it, others are coming toward the accident. Some have just passed. Some will never forget. Some will never stop trying to forget. Some will forget everything and themselves. We try and decide if we should look, and what the consequence might be. 

Feels gravely uncomfortable for a while, on that stretch. Why would I be more specific? Deep breath returns to you, if you survive it again. Just metal and plastic and glass all around your bare feet  no longer bleeding, merci dieu. Any chalk outlines are now obscured. Thank the goddess, too.  Then, life changes a little, say a degree or two on the continuum of feelings. Say a 360 degree scale. To be contextual. She’s a cautious tiptoe thing on rolling rubber wheels, life. We must merge lanes and take exits with no time to spare, hold focus and wave thanks, or kick in the gear to cut real fast. Or wait until they honk at us mercilessly, or until they stop. None of any of that matters too much. Try not to let it get to ya. You seen one you seen a thousand accidents. Some live for these soul suck moments. Thankfully, they are less prevalent than Iranian Christians. Less prevalent than grandparents sporting androids.  Sociopathy is kinda rare around here. But you must confront it when you find the lifeless, breathing thing. Ask, What the fuck? Acknowledge but never accept it. For it poisons the well. Its clearly beyond VIP. It wants all your attention and then some. Ignore it if you can. Despise it. Make a scene! Act out! Implode if exploding is prohibited. Or vice versa. Call the cops if it won’t leave you alone. Kill it if it ever gets anywhere inside you, sociopathy. But such an abhorrence is rarer than rare. Kill it and call the coroner.

From here, I must wonder, where are the specifics? The empirically backed evidence? The details? The plotline? The characters? The compass of collective morality? From here I must wonder; have i wandered too far out to be alone now? Then I must soak those questions, all of them, in a large boldprint marquee: So the fuck what?

See how im cursing? Notice it? Notice the way I blow up right here, like i just got told English is out and what the fuck is in season? This process shit is pissing me off !  So the fuck what?

I might hurt someone. My head hurts. Feels squishy up there like canned, processed food. Like my tongue after a day outdoors. Flicking and catching innocents and purists like flies, stopping them dead in their tracks. This flight is grounded! So the fuck what?  When the people get uncomfortable and stop laughing, stop reading, stop following, stop wishing, stop praying, stop dreaming, stop flying, stop seeing? So the fuck what?

I can tell you yes, from this little quiet space deep in the heart of it all. This square of thousands of thousands of equal opportunity squares and oppositions and trines… I can tell you Yes! Yes I found my fingerprint I was born with but unaware of, untravelled in! I found my little old spiral unique little snowflake of a spiral, with a smile! With a smile which followed a shocking gasp, a gasp which followed a streak of calamity after a string of played out tape that could no longer be rolled back into the cassette, could no longer be played out again cause it was old and feeble, inflexible, and worst of all: Predictable!

I will always always remember her streets, and above all my friends on the streets. I pray I may some day forget the rest. And they who came along with the rest, like a red tide upon clear water dreamers and searchers. And I mean it! To forget, forgive, and whatever else required to lock in the promise of the river Lethe. For it weighs me down, the memory, it runs deep like a branding: The way they raid motel rooms for the lost causes. The way you aren’t even allowed to exist, once you have pissed them off too many times. Once you have shown up too many times on the docket for it to be a coincidence. Once you have dyed your hair or pierced more than ears. Once you have spoken out to many times about your right to speak out! Once you have declared that which you should have accepted but not declared, that which you are beholden to surrender immediately when they rudely intensify their force upon you and yours! No, it will not be accounted for! Not that the law, which purports to protect you from day #1 (of this life you got the short stick on, you think), has nothing but alienated you and your people, pushing your family further west further north further out from the growing bubble of prime real estate surrounding any American city and yours. Or the taxes you must pay, which go well beyond anything ever owed to the I.R.S.! The taxes they create and exact from your spirit and soul!  The taxes no one could pay if one even conceded to pay!

And how i would to forget not the lessons but the episodes of which I am least proud of my conduct. My self as I projected her upon my environment at times of great personal unrest, indecisiveness, insecurity! Fire of anger and flare up of pain so long entrenched and inflammed, and toxicity leaked then spread then exacted out of self upon others in a selfish, egoic,  insignificance of misaligned action, or other offstep!  My carrying on about my needs not being met, my bullying and abuse! My demanding stubborn ingratitude! My pretension and neglect! My vanity storm! And yet how significant, how critical, how demanding a feeling can be. How childish, how vindictive, how self-serving, our wants!  How our needs seem to fall like our shadows, part of us yet so often unheard, insatiate, misunderstood! Thirst and knowledge alone could not pass over this particular brand saran wrap. The friends I lost…having lost a friend in my self. Having lost my balance and been unable to regain footing for an endless sort of tantrum yielding an endless sort of drought where once I knew gardens… oh but before I self-indulge like a honeymooner on a full moon, let me remind myself…So the fuck what?

just stay in that make believe place i made myself believe was my locus aka whereabouts aka future time place whereby any such question and therefore possible choice to answer might exist (but really does not, though reality has been superceded by the made believe i shoved into its face like a whopper powered by V6) let her go-o–o-o ? Now i got 99% of you lost and disinterested and feeling the alternate universe of Occupy Wall Street, Occupy Oakland, Occupy movements everywhere, USA and International. Now i gave the 2011 political muscle powered by baby boomer babies grown up for real — some upper peristalsis action as a test of its true mettle, steel, strength of endurance… now that I make believe i have even so much as made that kind of impact even, in this planet 0 nullset of the internet i do not dare call home but

Who knows it maybe all swiped away, memory and all, in a temp file kinda way with all settings, cookies, form data, history, set to be deleted upon closure of this here very B-log post I been  flapjacking the A-log list of snail mail letters de

bw self

scribed calligraphically by my lit major self identity with ivy growing off and on, kinda touched with new money momentum, wherever my faith cuts out like that old evinrude outboard engine survived to its third (mine) generation of benefactors and beneficiaries.

Nah, I cannot continue out of here! This isolated sad island. Not here, if I am truly to orchestrate my personal IPO day of brand reckoning, my psychosexual carnival ride on bookstore-tour-tilt? Ego taxidermed and spurned no longer! Now or then, to watch the flowers handed to me after my short program figure freeskate over the frozen tundra beneath us, wilt. If i continue on here, I risk this effect of my prose cut in half or worse, on tilt. Blogger’s disadvantages as published recently, include the possibility of having the entire ball of wax and words being pulled out from under for any reason at any time! Have mercy, have mercy!

So last words last: The sun is cool and strong in its weakened winter heat- stroke. May be even sufficient for ordinary type of folk in the low-rent colorful apartment lifestyles i know, dropping a pack or two of menthols into the lined trash baskets with a half dozen paint infused used nail files. Diet cokes would be there if it weren’t for the bad press lately. Consumption of caramel color being linked decisively to cancer… on top of the already offensive kidney stone painful passages, dehydration, and ignorance of holistic health quotidienne r.d.a’s generally appreciated. Have mercy and pray we do not suffer the press of diet coke. The press on diet coke. The press for diet coke.

For all subconscious, conscious or otherwise projectile, egoic-packaged, grabs for A-list space was, is, and will be premeditated criminal behavior. Human reactive kinda blemish formation activity under the tropics of cancer and capricorn, and under the expected levels of adherence to an enculturated unspoken grande hierarchy of mindful listed rated and published writers! Writers and screenwriters, playwrites, novelists, novella-ists and istas, short storyers, journalists, A-list loggers, columnists, celebrity autobiographers, ghostwriters, unauthorized biographers, biographers, word excavators, Writers-in-residence, foreign writers-in-residence, Artists, Linguists, Typologists, Alcoholic poets and poetesses, Rhapsodists, rapists, Freestylers, Poetry jammers, extracurricular mass mailing spammers, Fanning the flame fire-starters, yes!

Pray for yourself and All of us! Turning unrelated other than url-linked at best, brush stroked out on the table! usually after midnight on any of all seven days in the week, too locked up in the mind! the decirculated blood, by the muscles in the face, requiring massage of some sort or relaxants or botox or biometrics against the swimming upstream of facial tics fighting face….Pray for our potentials to be fulfilled! Pray for the Yet to be and hopefully never served with a toetag, like d.o.a. attributed before the e.m.s. even listened for the bass, the snare, the drumbeat of the heart, saw the lack of rise in the chest, felt the still air where would have been the jet the stream the current of breath… Pray for the jetstream which even now you feel across your sun-spackled cheeks… pray with the intensity of all compassionate muscles read by the youngest of children upon your face in a second flat… And breathe… again.