Byline: Love letters in the Sand
Jetting off into the sunset, staring into solar abyss, the past awaits all
people moving forward. Nature follows its own karma. We eventually
deteriorate into our own skin.
Graffiti and identity swirl through the debris of time. Humanity wrestles
with wind and water. Riding shotgun you can hear the air whistle a
soundtrack for the landscape.
Evocative images speckle the scenery. History and myth collide in the
collective imagination. Using clichés in original ways and citing
communal references is a requirement to survive outside the vacuum. What
is here, is as it seems. Hear?
I catch my breath midweek at month's end making it with a soldier's
mindset. Military minds understand programming better than most
programmers. Men on missions must make good and by all means I'm made to
maneuver.
Distracted by devils, hitchhiking for redemption, I get gone and got my
own information. Go forth and get yours, write your own film, script your
dream. Fix your information to a myth.
Instead we sit and sift through all this networked data as anthropologists
in disguise, gleaning at hieroglyphics for the space age, masquerading as
happenstance.
Trespassing seems to be in some people's nature. Graffiti writers can't
keep off the grass, transgression is part of their essence. For every
creation, there is an equal destruction, curses and blessings are
indistinguishable even with digital transmission.
The summer season closes but the world isn't closed for the season.
Letters of love are scratched across beaches while Southern souls suffer
the cruel crush of gulf water waves.
Worlds divide people, but space keeps us within proportion. The demons
inside us have nothing to do and all day to do it. All it takes is a
taste of nature to prod the demon. Best to keep checking the rearview to
see which side of karma you're on.
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