The light of humanity flickers Jupiter in the dark of night as boxes bleed for hands.
I tried to write more into a poem. The muse’s finger shines like the sun at this asshole.
The roads were full today as I drove to my favorite bookstore. One day after my social feed overdosed on pure grain gratitude. The parking lots to the big box stores were stuffed like turkeys the day before. Memory recalled the last time some years ago that I awoke at some ungodly hour in the morning to go buy a thing cheaply on black Friday. It seems just that I can’t even recall what that thing was. It was somewhat uncivil back then. The line to the door was orderly and when the doors opened, us lemmings entered the building like young school children coming in from recess. The place was soon packed and I vowed to never expose my self to such capitalistic civility.
The book store opened at 10:00 am on Black Friday. Parking was blissful. The short walk to the door was sprinkled with November rain. The place felt as a church. Peaceful and the few customers present knew their place. The light in the joint was as bright as Tesla’s sperm. Far from panic and desire I knew where my place was, and there it rested, patiently for me, waiting to be opened.
When a box of learning is as crowed as now is a box of consumption than this realm will have returned to it’s gods of being.