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{meaning of life #20} sean lovelace In turn batten on. Spread the news. We exist spasmodic, so productive. We set the glittering constellations. We air blaze. Eyelid. We plumb. Then raise doves in gilded cages, release them, videotape their inky scrawl across our sky. We like to do things. To record the doing. It’s because we’re peaceful, and splintered, and bored—in a healthy way. We have orbits of money. Gold clings the gyros of our exhalations. Some believe we are stars. And why not? Near dawn we sit on our lawns cross-legged, to listen and glow. Insects flutter. Sprinklers sigh. The gears of grinding. The chunk of cultivation. Or even words—go ahead, mumble something. We understand. Sometimes we disguise ourselves as prayers. In sack cloth and brooches. We have massive prayers. Prayers as appetites. As prisms. As steel pins and iron grips. As flowers, in bloodroot thickets, or a mall. Listen. Musik, and all variety of answers. We. Not them. |
