Fleeting Meditation by Kelly Abe
I'm so calm right now - overwhelmed with the scent of freedom;
It's cooking, you know?
We're all cooking - melting into the decomposition that is fuel for the revolutions of the earth that will eventually crumble under the guise of efficiency which the feeding hand has created for the sake of our contentment.
But that's irrelevant - I'm looking for a fleeting period of peace to engulf my drunkenness;
A recliner without weekend-yellow tape surrounding the perimeter of rest so that when I finally get there, the only thing left to do is worry about what's outside the boundary of bureaucracy that I have so loyally fed by virtue of a dream to destroy it.
I try to realize the real lies, but my real eyes are laminated with the artificiality of the goal I have set out to conquer; though my actions bleed reality. Ironic? I think not. More typical than anything else.
Again, I've gone off track - I want to hold this feeling - it is intoxicating; The feeling of indifference with a hard-on. It's really something else - to not care about anything except the very moment which just passed - and to let it pass without mourning;
To hold your cock and type a therapeutic regurgitation of the life you have swallowed and still manage to think about pizza is a phenomenon which most will fail to recognize before their systematic death.
I, for one, thank God for this stall in the sequence of time.
Goddamnit! Now the moment's passing - and I'm not even coked up. I gotta go take a shit - Fuck this world.