Days later, it erupted like a deep sea volcano, with the magnitude of Hiroshima earthquakes and the kind of tidal waves that are high enough to wash away the history of ancient coastal civilizations and to sending the wretched moon whirling off into space without purpose or direction, photographs and memories of this rock that unites everyone on earth with eyes and minds will take the place of relatives on the mantel, a moon rock acts somewhat like an urn, an urn that you've scattered your own ashes inside of, what part of you has broken off and falling to earth like twinkling star light, you burned and cremated into a fragile pile, but is it any more fragile that your arteries?
How do you deal with insecure feelings of ineptitude? Do you drink into a stupor, with paralytic intent to squash haunting demons from your darkening mind, or free yourself from government counter logic with leafy greens and pipes, in that desolate space you resembled a smoke stack with fumes spouting out from the cavern of your mouth, your lungs attached and your spine stretches out in a hot yoga pose, the most difficult to perform without tension, and you smoke your paychecks like cigarettes? saving cans and bottles in order to trade them in for spare change... the precious material inside your heart that you often forget exists in that prison cell of a rib cage and many centuries of civilizations have invented ways to pierce those cemetery walls and to rip through the anatomical skeleton in such a way that crowds of people would foam at the mouth in a frenzy, rioting in the streets with drunken cajolery, at the sight of first blood, we have bandages though, they cover only tiny area.
Are you certain you've taken the right essences out of life?
What makes you so sure.
