A Gold Dipped Metaphor

Were it not for a volcano exploding in Asia and shifting the earth for moment,

I’d not have caught my balance on a cliffs edge in North America.

So certain was I that plate tectonics was my guardian angel;
and why not, gravity has served me mercifully in the past.

I snuck behind her back to do battle with the daemons that she didn’t see hiding behind her angels.
Deep dumb blinking of trauma all around me.

Where the wounded go for comfort, to ruminate and heal, their “state of existence”
I’m not particularly dogmatic…I hybridize everything.

…and then I choose to spend a month writing on a beach.
For some reason, quality is an undertone felt more than seen. And we behave in undertones.

Jovial languages westernized for straight men. His was a plan to vanquish the human trade industry…I was a ploy. I don’t speak Chinese. But anyway, I have spent just a little time in a lot of places I didn’t want to go

and I kept quiet; there is no sense rushing a world war, right?

My grandparents were incredibly kind and generous. They have passed – dead – dead for their good deeds. They were cooks with equity in the casserole…

Standing before a great mountain skirted lake, steaming for photographers, is just a reminder of a perfect place for the fulcrum of Nirvana; one that balances the condition of living responsibly and loving uncontrollably.

I really don’t know anything at all actually!

Yes, three words in our feeble attempt to bottle the jeanie only seem to whisk it along as the world grows more tender beneath our feet.

Like philosophy seeks to destroy itself, I want a gold dipped metaphor for why NOT to write.

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