Soup's On

12-15

There are frames of footage
where my fingers forget their footing
and sit motionless for one blessed minute of the never-ending day.

In this instance again my hand is unfamiliar,
static and stationary as opposed to feverished and frenetic.
Normally I only catch glimpses of my fingers
in the snap second moments of focus in between the blurs
and fans of my constantly fruitful legerdemain.

The philosophy finds framework in the success of selective movements
since fingers that fly shoo all thoughts that maybe I’m actually a loser,
so long and lanky digits loop around with ink in hopes of pinning down the sights I think

and then move on to string to soothe my brain’s wandering,
to build each loop in empty air is paradoxical paradise and I can’t keep my fingers away...
With no exceptions today.

Between dribbles of slurped soup and heady bass lines from junkies stooped,
my words charge forward from the source unknown.