Terrapin Spin

This is concrete manifestation. Hallowing statures are reflecting their towering statistics in the drones of outdoor lawn equipment. The turtle asks you for a dime and you have no answer for him. Nobody has ever paid attention to the floral patterns enscripted in the layout of this city. It all points north towards the greater lakes of the western sun, embedded in the lost races of time that flash across the sullen skies.

There can be no crash inside the turtle’s mind if he never believed that a bang could have existed in the first place. This has kept him underneath the pavement’s covers. They keep him warm during the great extrapolation of the city’s secret underground industries. He has survived building plans worthy of the fairer kings of Egypt. This being is our idyllic surface pointing outside the boundaries of our own boxes we made out of recycled cardboard we brought to the curb just two weeks ago.

I have sold cigarettes for a quarter during a state of emergency, but I have never slid beneath the decent levels of known glassware. We don’t know our true heroes. The mud has welcomed the ground’s rock and stability, but it won’t last forever.

{Soon the analysis of the present day will be the only thing we can remember and connect to this time.}

Dissection has been placed on the menu and is the special which will embarrass the dining car as we slowly reach our next scheduled stop. The cards have been inserted in the proper slots and its showing a full house that won’t beat the royal flush next door. You let it happen. The resources are drowning under their own demands and, miraculously, profit is still a magic word to some. Only the truly standard of all individuals could relinquish such devils.

The statistics have never looked as grim and scientific as they do underneath a garbage can in the Capitol Square. The trick is finding out which garbage can is the right one. An optical illusion makes you think the square has evolved into equilibrium over time, when it has only crested and fallen back into its own glandular problems. There is no more room for homeland. We are distancing ourselves from the center epoch that defined our connection to the ground.

The rock is cracking and not a single extension cord in this city will be long enough to fix the despair. One more electrocution will surely cause a permanent blackout. And we’re running low on batteries, too. They are powering the white minivans that everyone seems to be driving in the middle of the night while sirens blare from every direction, charging towards an anonymous location translated via satellite to a different undisclosed location, right under our noses. I feel like there is no further we can go without starting over again. Push the spacebar a couple more times and it won’t make a difference.    The gutters will always have leaves in them and you can never find the perfection of ghosts.

If you can’t find it, it doesn’t mean anything. If it finds you, it means all that we could ever recreate for ourselves in this chapter of the universe.