You’re either blessed, or not. You’re either alone or not. You want to be nothin’ and nothin’ wants to be you. I know what you’re gonna say. It don’t make sense. But it does. You know, when you’re body buzzes and there are pigs or coyotes in there. Your stomach twisted to the back of your spine. You feel it comin’ sometimes.
I walk around a lot. Just walk. Don’t know where. Like I could find a sign on the street. It feels like a cage cause the city don’t have dumb-struck cows, and very few pine. The feelin’ of not feelin’ real gets worse and worse, until I could just bust open. Crosswire. Buzzin’. You know what happens? Either something speaks to you, or not. And if it does, you choose to hear it, or you don’t.
Something builds. Something is always building. It’s a movement that never tires. I know what you’re gonna say. Everything needs rest. But if you give a pig an apple it’s gonna keep askin’ for more. And if you give a man a vision, he’s gonna keep expectin’ to see. Not that the pig or coyote doesn’t quiet down. Doesn’t lie there sometimes inside and ask you to lick its mouth shut. It asks the swirl for that. Air, movement. That’s what I mean. It’ll quiet and sleep, but still dream of rippin’ through your ribs. Yeah, like a madman starin’ at a fence and tryin’ to jump. Once, I saw a deer caught between a barbed wire fence. The image gets me still. Twists about and calls to me. Blood. Slowly leaping from one plane to the next. Everything keeps moving. From to build to building. Without end. You’re blessed or not. Choose which way to look at it.
So I walk round the city and ask for signs. Somethin’ speaks or doesn’t. On days it doesn’t there’s that stir and pain almost like you’re gonna fall down and hit the cement with your fists until a hole opens up. Or your bones break. Or someone stops and says, you alright? And you don’t look up cause they’d see your eyes aren’t human at that moment. It’s the pig, it’s the coyote, it’s the thing inside that ain’t sleepin’ no more. Ain’t gonna take one more moment without that vision. So you keep wailin’ away at the ground. You keep building until the collapse. That’s on days when there ain’t a sign around. No speak. No words.
Then sometimes, there are signs. And you could be high in the tree or drunk or standin’ on a platform, waitin’ for a train and whoosh! A little bit of you gets taken. Like wind. Particled-out. Your cells respond to that Other Voice. I tell you what, those are the best days. But they ain’t the same without the days where you just wanna curl up and die. Building takes. It takes each day like that and then you’re askin’ God or somethin’ to speak or bleed or punch you out. I know what you’re gonna say. What the hell. Don’t make sense. What doesn’t makes sense is being blind. Being def. Being almost-dead.