When i was just a skinny little lad my mother always told me there’d be moments like this. Dimple-making moments, she’d call ’em; sunlight bouncing off corneas, white with innocence and latent dreams, visually persistent diastema before the click of the shutter.
A few years later i sentimentally recall them as god googling the earth. funny thing is, i was right in a way. Every good photographer takes his captured images to the dark room for development at the end of the day.
Our God has trust issues, oh yes indeed he does. The scribes of yore made sure that track stayed on repeat. sadly that didn’t earn them a Grammy. I would be jealous too if i had a cocktail of two tots of clay mixed with spittle, a dash of mischief and a couple of splashes of fatal attraction.
‘Burps’…..i’ll have another round, thank you very much.
I need me some silver but a Messiah i had none to barter with. It would have been a bad investment, though. The boys at wall street will tell you that without the help of Ifa.
I need me some light, even though power has changed name. She sometimes answer to a string of sobriquets, when am drunk enough to recall them.
There are a few pieces of silver on the sidewalk…..maybe i should walk into the sun; but am afraid i’d be there forever. History, thoughts and mind flashes- fried into a single moment, property of the ‘Forever Nows’. Trampled upon by HIStory’s Teller; the bastard exchanged his soul for a battered, fairly used Underwood typewriter.
I hate the bastard. I’ve always wanted a typewriter but the bastard won’t tell me where the market is. Hell, he wouldn’t even accept my soul plus an antique pair Chuck Taylors.
These days i walk around in my sunday’s best; i have a feeling someone’s got me in focus. I walk with a stoop; you would too if you’ve got self-consciousness and paranoia on your shoulders.
I need me a compass, but a destination i have not. the path is neandertal; Darwin had crude tools, don’t blame him. I once fell into the sky on a dare, just to see if Galileo was on a universal punk-drive. turned out he was right.
These days i travel only by night, tethered by gravity’s rusty anchor, sacrificing Mary as burnt offering to the soot-stained window panes of the ozone layer.
I hope He doesn’t have a flash on His kodak; you would too if you have what i have.