And that is why too What happened moments, even decades, ago may as well Not have happened at all. Spots of sticky disbelief Linger about thighs and belly. Out comes relevant. Seed A used husk. Transitions. Transmission needling slowly Into wet wired spaces. Unwilling and prone in treason Yet a residue remains. A lean fatigue in tote to be sure, all While humming 337 variations of Buckdancer’s Choice. Find it all ridiculously sour: blame the broken system, Blame the token incentives and the incessant pressure. Point at the balloons in the sky, point at tacos and food On illuminated boards. Say anything to fix this body. Lean sadness. Knowing finally that I will not walk On smoother water ever again but with the addition Of salts nor will I sink below. As the ways and means Of handling dysfunction make themselves known Day in, day out, I recall long drives speedling through The Santa Cruz mountains in the Catalina, the V8 Block under hood urgently churning valley dust and Grits of coast sand upward as if ejaculated art, singing Now of panic and gut measured response. I become What happens. I am animal and circuitry. Page 40 - Nine Mile Magazine

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