A Page of Pages

A page on anything... that's what she said.


Pages and pages of Paganini linguine! Musically verbiated with pixelisms and prisms.
Distractinations  for lost love palpitations, with no discernible path towards migration.
All this mental penetration, a reverberation of frustration and deflation caused by hesitation and imagination. A sociopathic conflagration burning atmospheric shooting stratification
of this brilliant, falling star. Like that time in Salt Lake City in December of 1997 while
driving by the lake and you saw what looked like a mudball stuck to a leaf plummet out
of empty sky... but the word, a late bird. Inauspicious nuptial gift for sure, but sally on
and forth with such mirth, until the love train derailed and you were frail and impaled
on yourself, reaching your own arms high to put your heart on the shelf. So, now you
shouldn't look so surprised by those missing eyes, as your own lack of readiness denies
you from the big show you bought season tickets for, and so you implore for more...
and the gods immerse you in their graces, and you've seen the traces in the gratitude of
an inspired mind, who in kind brought you along in his pocket-filled mind, or when
you sprang as the phone rang and it was the shaman Rainbolt calling you from another
universe to tell you the rocks on which you bounce are hard and painful until you just
let go. And yet, you still daydream of a five hundred mile Scott Pilgrim serenade to
the shell of who she never was, never was... but know the realness of yourself
Pinocchio, and that you have the potential to be more than just a haystack of toothpicks
with a wistful soul searching for mouth after mouth of dirty teeth. So, brush your face
and kiss your mirror... you are the big sky with more than stars and hope. You are
the smile on a baby's face. You are true love, and your story is only just beginning.
The fact that you continue, despite an afternoon wasted on SI dreaming, screaming
your denied heart's peccadildoes, you really do know the stakes, and you move across
the chessboard like a brave little pawn, one foot in front of the other, one step at a
time. So away to make your pages, and maybe the sages will learn a thing or two about
why the sky is blue, and so are you... and so you must trust yourself, your heart, and
move forward no matter what anyone else tells you, because you were born weird for a
reason. And when you reach your goal, you'll have painted a rainbow of woven love
which the gods will wear like a shawl because you really do such good work.

and so I scroll up and chide myself on the length of this piece, and I wish that it were
longer, but some things are the length and girth that they're going to be and know that
you will always be sufficiently better than average, but that you should be grateful
for the average lot, as they are the foundation upon when you will forever measure
yourself. And it's really, really nice to be appreciated, even if it's only for being
unflinchingly average.