Polaris.
Upon my back and under the sky, I take advantage of any motionless opportunity to escape. Clouds will always be clouds to my literal, daylight mind. But the stars become mythical figures at night, satellites and comets swimming in and out of the ancient headdresses. Diamonds, depths and dreams all exist overhead forever.
Blank and blue blackness is the canvas. Songs, words, creations should be able to exist in a vacuum. Because the only way any of this matters is if it makes a difference to the maker. All of us, as if we were our own Odin.
There’s a small bear on the horizon a few degrees west of due north that perpetually pulls on my mind-sleeve. (My mind-sleeves are pressed and impressive compared to the bedraggled robes of my reality. I’m beginning to believe there is no land where me and my trusty bottle of ketchup are welcome in the realms of bedding.)
—
Then there’s a synthetic buzz from the telephone in my breast pocket.
It’s Narcissus. He’s bored of my baloney.
—
I want a real answer. Not just a polaroid image or the sound of my own voice. (I’ve heard my own voice many times. And I will always agree with the harshest critics, the ones who’ve so often repainted over the purpose of my existence. The myth goes like this: In an uncharacteristic spaghetti-fueled rampage of my youth, I once swallowed a toad masquerading as a steak. The tasteless presence immediately let itself be known with a raspy, low voice. The toad gave me two choices. Either I let him sing and record as if he were me or he would dismantle all the plumbing down below. The intestine attached to the heart. The stomach rerouted to one lung, the liver to the other.)
I chose music. (I apologize.)
What kind of creature was I without the expanding virtual universe? Was I simple, shoeless and kind?
Or if I step outside of my sarcastic skin, what kind of animal am I empowered to be? Is the increasing speed of connection and disconnection offset by the positivity of our communication?
Please pardon me and my doubt. But in order to do something, it has to be undone.
—
The simple equation, run one more time:
Upon my back and under the sky, I take advantage of any motionless opportunity to escape. Clouds will always be clouds to my literal, daylight mind. But the stars become mythical figures at night, satellites and comets swimming in and out of the ancient headdresses. Diamonds, depths and dreams all exist forever overhead.
Blank and blue blackness is the canvas. Songs, words, creations should be able to exist in a vacuum. Because the only way any of this matters is if it makes a difference to the maker. All of us, as if we were our own Odin.