Jack Johnson is the anti-Christ. Just sayin’. We work and work, overtime undertime pastime no time left for you-hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo, knitting the air together, describing impossible contraptions made of whispers and infinite wisdom, calling all atoms molecules tissues organs limbs love life and long-lasting apologies out of the woodwork and into our hearts and minds. Sentries at the gated entryways check IDs, take license numbers, escort suspicious individuals off the premises, spend the long empty nicotine-hacking hours watching tiny television sets broadcasting inscrutable harangues by televangelists, news reports from the outer reaches of pointlessness, and ads for junk products masquerading as news masquerading as entertainment. The clammy night air fills up with expired breath and heavy-headed regrets. Raccoons take care of pressing matters, cruising the garbage in search of inspiration, while the vice squad sleeps off their exhaustion (physical, moral, spiritual).
Trees brush their knuckles along the tops of passing buses, exchanging energies across the interface between the living world and the mechanical. Autopoietic sussuruses of twigs and buds flit like fireflies, shimmer and slide sideways through bare arthritic branches, then rush upwards into blackness.
