Critical 25

The amalgam of our momentum usually is divided into two parts: first three minutes, and the last eight minutes. I don’t buy any of that. It’s all the first 25 minutes of tremor, trembling lips, and eyes that looking for a steady tidal wave of mystery. Then we can land on, take and crash off, onto anything. Baby, a-ny-thing. I don’t care.

My Mr. Odyssey boom-boom-powed all the sharks that tried to eat my packs of Ryukin. Sure, then, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t say ‘my’ since those eloquent tails and fat golden bellies aren’t owned by anything, let alone a mere flesh on long-boat, steamy head journey like an edgy kid exploding to ecletic hunky dory stardust.

In an egg-shaped space ship orbitting around the styx that keeps expanding, hoping a blackhole will swallow everything at once as the beginning of a journey.

No bangers, lad! Yet, you’re not welcome aboard, either. So screw you. Have the view of me swaying my head from right to left. O my thorough Daddy with his Swiss army knives would be beyond please to see his little princess finally orbiting to the infinity of moving pictures, smoking kush a puff or two. Jack D smell in the air. Kill ’em, kill ’em, he said, they need you to bow down but you ain’t gonna since they’re only another brick in the wall.

I only nod to the triumph of diamond dogs and laugh mendaciously — rather gratefully to the malevolent menaces who reset the time and kill all the people hanging on the bulwark. Disgusting filthy limping souls.

Set the sail high, push the rocket engine on. I’m ready, faster than a dying glance of wounded and betrayed soldiers in Danang, but my life is rocksteady on the theatrical sandy rhizomatic network beneath my feet.

We’re not yet there, while it’s been so long. I hope at the periphery of this galaxy, my embrace could have Elaeis guineensis close and warm, with no gargantuan time-ticking bombs within, and my toes will grip strong and tight to the layers of cleansed drainage.

Tear down the wall! Tear down the wall!

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