Cold lower back, grazing the tan/brown carpet where divots form from chair legs, that black beauty acoustic gem of sixth string is to the immediately vicinity of my right side, glowing restless in the morning fog, those lowered clouds elevate my clarity although the views are obscured, vague and defiled, made like Bob Ross paintings before completion. Stacks of books and psychology yesterdays, mirrors in water sources or shiniest reflective windows, into the soul of it, the heart of this raw earth and our horrible tendencies, shake it off like a bad cold one morning suddenly dissipates, pull apart the infrastructure of those sad dreams, the ones with countless animal deaths and awkwardly silent funerals, no jokes or anecdotes, nor eulogy, or pictures, just downtrodden families dressed in a mock up of black grieving robes, purchased from the funeral director's wife, who makes these weeping outfits for rent each day someone is lowered into the ground. You can wear one around your face like a blind fold if you wish not to know who died. Is there some pane for broken glass? Excessive, gratuitous love on sheer cliff faces, belonging to the parable of Zeus, almighty with sharpened scepter, glaring down at unarmed mortals with an anxious, testy look in his eyes. No one has believed in him for so long, with all of these modern gods and jesuses, that he no longer gets to punish anyone for misbehaving. Poor old guy. He was able to decapitate those who stood against him in the olden days. Now vishnu would send elephants the size of meteors toward his castle battlements until it all crumbles back into those low flying clouds I earlier mentioned.
Seagulls and crows picking worms out of the ground water mud. Soft low voices humming from without like radios left on in between stations. All low frequency mumbles and static. A hen from the chicken coop next door calls her sun salutation as the rays grow downward, angular through my window like a plotted graph of increased solitude between here and her mighty, fiery globe hanging up there with eminent, unpredictable implosion or extinction. I hear the cooped up animal cawing for the sake of sun's warmth after a night of silent huddled shivering out in the tundra of cold waste. It is a rejoice for newfound life in sun light. An affirmation of existence and I should have a similar habit, my god Zeus, what do you have for me for my morning affirmation? Is it the written word, yoga, prayer and candles? Or something physically active. A icy breath jog up the icy death stairs, the grand stairway toward orion. Twenty minutes writing. Ten minutes cooking. Ten minutes eating. Ten minutes preparing for school. Ten minutes playing guitar. Or should I let the day come at me like a surprise attack each morning? Halfway through my second cup of coffee, I realize I have to run out the door and have time for no else. Good riddance morning. I'll see you again this afternoon.
