Lose your Mind or offer it to Rodents and soon it will be Fall

It’s funny, how much you see before the fact.  More so funny as a result of what gets edited and how. Like memories are little pails, and we want to jump back in them but they’re hamster sized and so we break our ass, and then it turns out that the hamster is the editor, and his funneling is also a planting of these little pails, he is red gloved and meticulous in his frenzy.  And over Time it grows unclear, whether we are shrinking or the pails are piling but mostly what sparkles and blinds our proximity to that underlying THING which basically just KNOWS is the SHAME of wanting to go back in Time.  Maybe, if you move faster or sleep longer the hamster dies, I don’t know.  Maybe the hamster and the shame are unrelated, like mathematically.

I know so much less now than I did before but I feel this lessening more.  Some days the lessening is a melting and I bubble into something vaguely past the sky but other days, it is a Hemangioma on my face that is not ready to detach but does.

To whom it may concern:  this may be an apology, I’m uncertain.  The shape and form of it is not yet clear.  To say there are no words is definitely an understatement.  I can’t conceive a gesture or a gift even remotely corresponding to the saying it.  I don’t mean there’s no repairing, more like it’s just never quite enough, the conscious body desires something more akin to sacrifice to counterbalance the expression I Am Sorry.  However, this is, practically speaking, truly dumb.

I am concurrently at a Starbucks and watching them build a Vitamin Shoppe and also maybe more alive because it seems that degrees of life are possible, they tumble off and ache up.  Also I am back there, which you can choose to mean whatever emerges exactly as it should.  Some days I don’t realize I am gone, other days I am, a lot, and the idea of existing in any set of dimensions seems preposterous.  The universe is phlegm, the brain is paper, I am a Honda Civic, and we all live in a Vitamin Shoppe.  Which might be nice, in fact, inside this thing that was now and now was, and I loved you here and I loved you then, all of us together, and someone calls it Heaven.

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About thesupercoda

A weekly experimental cabaret
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