Gravity

Run, skip, jump! The bolt behind the brain, give it a wiggle, tug tug tug it and tug tug tug it like a bent nail in dead wood like a root you can’t unearth.
Many a notion will flood on out. A bantustan will brutally collect these, segregate these from the Good Common Notions of the Good Common People.
A tribunal will weigh in on today’s dun color, on tomorrow’s evil feeling in the tummy, on the Christ-like afterimage from when we all looked at the sun at once.

But step to! No toes will be ironed flat today. Too many ill impressions that would make, too many lives made wrong, too many standards broken.
Still, be afraid of the cruelties we’re capable of: A happiness made and then taken away. A cowardice that lasts longer than your window to forestall regret.
A uncertainty that never really ever goes away (does it) :  am I cut corn?  am I uncommon?  am everybody oh I oh me oh no  oh fuck oh no  oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck?

Oh hi. It’s written atop the fences and signs, “No one come down from here… aye, or else!” and if you could make out the letters from your perch in Sedona,
you might laugh that little laugh you laugh when something is not really funny, but it’s the right thing to laugh anyway, isn’t it? To be polite?
You try on a new pair of eyes to watch the fireflies gather in the moss you draped over the patio today. But maybe their eyes are watching you.

Maybe there’s a disease with your name on it. Maybe you’re too many years old yet too few a year ripe in your own self-made memory. You’re green, Cat.
And there’s nothing more devastating than the day they plant hedgerows and starthistles around you to tell you to leave, to tell you you can’t, to tell you
“there’s turbulence ahead like I’ve never seen, folks, but if we drop down and roll to one side and roll to the other side, He might take it for prayer.”