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Attention is not choice. We tend. This God dance every time we tell each other we love each other: every whisper from behind the stars, every comet energy thrust, craze, all of it is dance intended. Doesn’t come with plans. Ours for us. Mundane is ridiculous.Fantastics over the moon, pace the joy walking water, sweating sheets, yeah, dance.
Let’s do something. Watch our bodies and thrill each other. Climb, surf, ring, get sand up our ass. Listen to our images and put our hands all over them. Take it to the nines. I’m not waiting on you — I’m with you — together. The planet’s axis will shift once we circle each other, a given, for now the planet quakes. It should.
Passion doesn’t crawl, it races and screams and eats our hearts like something out of a novel because as much time as we put into it, we still think it a character arch. The play goes nowhere without it. Speak the language and let the rest fall in line. Practice comes to play? No, not really, its indigenous.
Who do we think we are to warrant? To set aside the rules and go straight to the narrow? I’m learning not to consider the question. I am who I am, you are who you are. Warrant makes sense.
Michael Stang 2021
