Little Dents

Death is not my friend. Nor yours. It’s a peeping tom looking in all of our windows.

I count my gray hairs. I moisturize my face.  I run 4. 5 miles on the treadmill while listening to Jay Reatard on a Disney Cruise, the ship rocking back and forth. They have their own island where the sodas are free… fake coconuts falling out of fake trees.

My brain’s boggled like a game of Boggle™.

Death, you don’t want to mess with this flesh.
Keep walking…

There are birds falling to the ground, friends no longer around. We’re strong for being alive; and weak, because one day we’ll die.

Every second, every breath, every smile or frown, we’re crafting little entities, projecting our identity, manifesting memory, and displaying kinetic energy. We’re temporal, and yet, so indelible. The ephemeral gossamer philosopher.
The mind seeks the possible. The images I see of life are vivid and tangled.
I’ve lived to be a little angel, but the devil sometimes shouts louder.
God watches from his cloud of learning, watching the fools burning the Shroud of Turin. I float through the churning, washing waves of Normandy!

When I’m on the roof, and the city lay splayed before me, a glittering, diamond-y, organic thing of light, and L.A. is totally sparkly, coruscating brilliantly, I think about all the different people conducting their people-affairs out there. Good, honest, wonderful souls. Working and sleeping and paying parking tickets. There are so many of them… us.  Breathing and eating. Shitting and shaving. Living our lives without acclaim, making little dents in our pillows.

Death, you’ll have to move quick to catch me.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s