The taste of it I’ll never forget. The spill of it. The will of it. I get up in the morning and look at changes my face is willing to impose on myself on my behalf. Its a gradual thing that slowly creeps up on you. A rifle shot type of thing. Great distances covered in the crack of a knife. Remember when you were 8, remember that time? Remember when you were 14, remember? Remember when you were thirty one and a half? See what I mean. I was surpassed by my own age years ago. And as it continues I remorse no loss.
It’s the get up and go-or gone. The mood that swings last laughs hardest. The channel of it. The relief of it. My morsel: Chewed but not swallowed. The House of ununited will be boarding at gate 51 No questions asked-A kick to the head. Drink it down unknown. A pause, a refreshment behind my own back. A short swim across your own personal English channel.
If the drink goes down I ask you what’s the price, and who paid what if there is. Money in your pocket against liquid in your stomach. Your dry mouth is walking away and I get to know the feeling. My time is set aside. I know myself like a haircut knows it’s short. The reasons against owning it all are infinite. The makers of products have a hold of my reasonings-I Live to give and give to get. Wait, adjust the ariel my reception is off. What I get, over what I desire, times the loss of friends: It's an equation that spells history every time. The creation of the human mind is an affront to profit and I want to make sure mine counts. I vote early and often and count the amounts I receive down to the last drop.
from Crashland Alma College, Alma, Michigan by Brendan deVallance,
3-3-92
