A hurdling stride that’s unstoppable. Un-fucking-stoppable towards the slabbed edge of the vast freeway complex, a place where cars and cats and dogs and people and pigeons dance over each other at seventy miles-an-hour in the tumbleweed malaise of life and your own toes and fingers.
And as the hurdling blood-wrenched steel ball rolls over the end of the freeway, some friends deny that the freeway ends. Some want the exception of man to fly off into the skyway, smug in a golden Rolls-Royce with rockets and harpsichord choirs pinging away into the bright stars and the drooping feet of God and his mother, herself.
If life could only be so blind graceful as to pick up a book or a movie or a neat hair-style themed website as truth, we’d all fly away into the unknown on the backs of the very pigeons we piss on, drinking guiltless diet soda, eating chicken wings dipped in saffron.
Because life is easier when death comes with celery instead of a bowl of dust.
I tell you what though, dude, when that bowl of dust is all you got, when it’s all, the mangoes and hand-jobs and hair strokes that splice the time and lips of today, the tiniest of now moments, are all as beautiful as forever.
No curls to slip between some mug harpsichord nymph. No hand-job in Heaven to dumb your heart. Mangoes are as good as the gold pavement under your ass, and forever is as good as nothing – As good as nothing, as good as everything rolled up into stars that you’ll never need to touch, because they’re all right here in place, in a space between your empty fingers and boundless toes and a tumbleweed rolling, and rolling, just rolling into a wondrous end.