मोविंग Moving In & On

Been hipshot, off balance, skewed and skewered for so long that I've become accustomed to it. I forgot to remember where my produce grew, where my sustenance sprouted, where the mushrooms erupted from the earth (truffles being a product of the Earth's orgasm). And now...

Now I'm moving in.

That term, 'moving in,' has acquired so many nuanced layers recently: embarking on a nesting with an Otter outta the Mississippi River, outta Baton Rouge; moving into a markedly different phase of life, rife with all the possibilities I've aligned in my Cassandra sight/saint's light; moving to New Orleans, come December; moving to new rhythms, or moving newly to the old; moving into my new skin, shiny and smooth beneath my molting layers. Moving,

Yeah. Moving...

Got this shift change happening, see. Can feel the Old Guard slumping at the mouth of the Ice Caves, and lo, this burgeouning Southern heat is melting down the walls, dropping stalagtites like swords, and I am on the run, bolting into Recrudescence.

I am anxious. Ravenous. Though I'm nowhere near ready, I want the high-speed journeying now, now, now. Key West is a boon become a burden that my shoulders ache to slough, and the laying down is just around the corner. The laying down and taking up and multiplying magnificence by massive magnitudes and oh, Atlas, --O, Atlas!-- your little sister is not leaving you so much as running ahead to clear your path down the Mississippi's steep and muddy banks, to secure your ferry across the Algonquin's Big River. I'm movin in, brother, into my sea-mammal Papi, movin on to my real life's work, and I have never felt more sane or more at home.

लोवे Alligator Death Roll

My beet-bloody platelets are in a microscopic logjam, and oh, and oooh sweet jeezus none of them know which direction leads back to the Heart,
to the Pulmonary Precipice since, y'know,
the Heart is everywhere this week, is smeared rice-paper-thin and foie-gras-rich across the long skin's surface.

And I,

I just,

uhmmm...I just gotta put this in metaphors of food and drugs and mental illness or else I won't be able to get it out at all:

I've got my Manic on and oh, Oh! it feels delicious! Mania's such an addictive thing, a goddamned narcotic, stronger than any pill or powder or apocryphal elixir;
and y'know,

y'know,
Fuck You if you don't dig it 'cause
I have done the shiniest meth and the most virginal cocaine,
I've spent long, tawdry weeks wrapped up in bottles of mezcal and pills,
my veins have met the points a time or two,
and still I stand 50 feet tall, shouting my lungs bloody,
absolutely certain in my knowledge that this particular mania,
that this high-tide drowning,
this rash of fissile lightning bugs,
this thoracic nitroglycerin,
this BlueAlligatorDeathRollLove bullshit is way waaay better than any padlocked-cabinet-strength amphetamine. It's the very best bit of the bipolar rollercoaster that undulates serpentine in the long acreage of my spine.
I am high, muthafucka,
and I mean High
on some sorta uncontrollable compulsion to participate in a total molecular exchange with an otter from an alluvial plain and,
and oh,
oh, I twitch and jitter for this,
and oh, I want to go on feeling this until I die from it, and
and that's what I'm talking about, y'know, that sensation of not really wanting to physically die, but wanting even less to ever come down, to ever hit the end of the high, the end of the trip, the end of the spiritual headfuck, the end of the endless dinner. I want to peak like this forever, want to feel like this when my body finally expires, want to be neck-deep in the understanding that all the other trauma and pain and annoyance and sometimes downright tragedy was

Worth.
This.

Was totally worth this single instance of hyperbolic excess velocity,
this simmering, pregnant, primordial swamp of possibility and communion.

When you're ready, baby,
Oh, when you're ready, I want you to wrap your scales and tail and 1200-pound crushing power jaws around me, cause when I come down,

oh when I come down....