Who's Breath?

A lost cause returns, tired of hopping flights, coursing all veins true enough in places and going, nothing but chances and being before and being after but no now. No. No. Never now, standing there, staining the floor with my everywhere thoughts, a million trillion things all happening at once or twice and skies all open egalitarian and helping me fish with my hands. There’s that stare I was talking about when we gave coins to the kids. Remember walking through the streets, followed by watermelon smiles and all shifty-eyed and wondrous with trees and hope in the world. This morning I smiled at myself in the mirror. I laughed, or made myself laugh. Streets and potholes slow me down, when will days of air cars come? How I like to eat and wait and eat again. Something is lost, something is found, all weddings have the roots of Spain, flaming with dance and abandon. The first place I went alone was Buffalo, to visit my grandparents, now both dead. I wonder if The Force could be made real if we imagined hard enough? I could invent a cosmogony that might rectify my self, especially if I invested. The trends. The meat. The heart of things, bubbling up and slipping across all the butcher shop floors of the world (read: relationships). Our love oxidizes. In the pantry there are supplies for the decline of civilization, they wait, hoping to be utilized, against hope of the world. This line is a re-run of something said before. Loop, essenceless loop with fingers attached, classically posed against the window, inspires a hunger artist to work again. I am a glutton artist, magically aligned with my gut and missing the breaking wave. Breathe patterns of water for maximum allowance from the wind father.