Quiescent Arpeggios

Nothing to say, but it's okay

I find myself teetering on the verge of language-ness, languish of no-ness, this day.

Each monstrous form of verbosity wishes to express something outside of itself, like a lamb delirious at its optimal slaughter.

Weaving broken spiders out of webs.

There are in fact many world events and solemnities and gaieties and festivities being strutted upon the discovium of effluvium.

Men and women, boys and girls, elderly fading and youth fraying, wolfish baying, soundless cawing.

What if that which matters — like a logical disloyal postulate — marches onward into the interminable abyss of effortless bliss?

Where is the momentum to manifesto the neo-generational stalemate in song, in amplitude, in all of the gaskets and blown nodes of the synaptic, mechanistically generated not quite this or that?

What if all of the teetering, jittering, jeering, cheering protesting armies of the interactive have, in their thwarted spookiness, become just that thing that is the thing which the outside of the inside itself recognizes as the beyond of the disrupted?

This opportunity still subsists for the Moloch-mocktail-Molotov manqué to intervene in the interim interval between thought and hook.

Syncretic whispers crawl like sleepy cloud-fists across the brown water of Hudson.

I’m feeling the delirious hubris.