Cruel Beauty; Pandora's Chimera

Driving down the coast, laying along the rental, well, one’s shorelines start to curl by each horizon. With a curvature rising, same as a plucked tablecloth for the ant you could be, so one stares up to make sense of the titan’s hands you’d unconsciously bite at. A third fallen, but a hundred in its aftermath settling, perhaps a splotched forest of many strands against the supposedly singular tree.

Stare long enough while the stars thread in and out of cirrus clusters. Nothing to grasp, everything to feel an affront about. You get it now: the entire world was configured to where, if you ever wanted to see something new again, you’d have to cut an arm off.

Ascending the glacier slopes, thin wires of an abandoned post, as clean as it could be, let the arm slide off and four fingers on the other. With the single index remaining, maybe then we’ll do a reenactment underpinning the reenactment of E.T. Let the tears dry before the last breath leaves.

These states and their names were made for one reason only: to be the last word before the light in your eyes extinguish. So one’ll mouth “Nebraska” or “Wyoming” as a half-felt blessing upon its populace, a plea that you’d be born to better days seemingly remaining inward. A photo from the satellites makes all the coasts burning, retreating, and the tablecloth lies in wait.

Here’s State Road 118 and three notches from exit 39 my grandfather is buried. Picking at the sand with my single index remaining one could see the granules indicative of your own existence. The gravest sin was ever to call oneself anything less than a nomad. Follow by Cain’s fundamentals, footsteps, as his descendents drive the last stake into the naive Abel outlooks. Let’s rip off the last fingernail, at least. Back to the car for the next mound a thousand miles out.

Roam in God’s original intentions: stranded, senseless, and I’ll discard the rest of my clothes should any emblem suggest membership. A metal stake by the ankle and a warped shingle clamped to shoulder. Bolt of eye and slouched jaw, to which one could pluck at maggots by an antenna base.

Should I be blessed by an idle interest of any deity and rejuvenated wholly, my disposition remains the same. I whittle down one decayed branch and siphoned leaves to a racket and swat away any intermeshed neighbor. By my final breath I’ll nest acorns closest to the wind, a palm leaf ark while the rest of the forest turns to incense.

In the xeric refuge, their leafy Mayflower toward Neo-Xanadu to forge, they’ll know in certainty: they are their own forest, and they’ll make the rest of their own history. Residual mutations drop off as the environment molds them into their own being.

Singular, as was always meant to be.