Working Hands Mashup

My toothless anima. My aim, my balance, my air and my pressure my soft steady grasping. My wind, my flow and waver, my gaping jaw, my red internal, my brittle rhinestone bones. My crest, my horizon sinking in starlight.

I see that many misunderstandings spring from my habit of phrasing questions as declarations. Often the person I'm exchanging barbs with doesn't realize that my claims are truly inquiries.* I expect my statements to be questioned, no, I demand it. Rick Roderick said something like: No smalltalk, I'm not gonna talk about the weather don't have time, gonna die soon. Still. There's a pattern in the mundane, more about sound than semantics. Rhythmic exchanges around fire. Standing confidently at dawn, living outside always.

They call it the Moth Routine. The trick, they say, is to get close enough to burn off all that shit you whine to yourself about. All the dead skin along with its parasites. All the stains and gnarled growths. Come out the other side fresh and smooth and steaming with new vitality!

Sotheadsays.



*My demeanor, of course, of course, is what they call matter-of-fact. I tend toward the deadpan, and carefully balance my melodramatic excesses with equally deficient understatements.