Splattered glow crashes into a dull mass, igniting all that is life before it sprays into something bright and wonderful for a dragging moment, before it's wiped away for the next Sun to be consumed.
Beyond the wind and the cries of triumph, and the Goddamned flies, where carcasses piled have been ground into dirt, colliding with mercury and rusted into iron, there is the perfection of silence.
What's eternal turns into a second, tears and scream are drowned by the beauty of reality, and there we die, or live, or sleep, wandering or travelling, in wonderment of what is beyond books or theory.
8AM, take a shower, ride into the day, divine as a grain of sand, read the paper, press the gas, rush to tomorrow. Bathe in the glory, the paper of excellence, and the comfort of society's breast. Here you will be found and will be lost, depositing and quarreling, bickering and budgeting, judging peers and celebrating the simplest things you have conquered. Somewhere a lush is congratulating and an angel is crying, as another who has fallen knocks on your door.
Conquer the world from the inside of your four-door, and become enraged from the rudeness of a random nobody, who may die tomorrow as you wished, for changing lanes at the most inopportune time. Look for the emotion that makes you feel alive, and if you conquer it you may be the only person on Earth who has settled down and taken the bank, insured your mediocrity with a few cheap laughs and a cardboard box holding a fiberglass tomb.
Twenty-something. Twenty something cigarettes, twenty-something years, twenty something hours and twenty-something beers, whatever it takes to forget the hours wasted or the nights, a bashful grin to wash away the moment realized it could have been spent better, or said better, or better done with more time in bed, or less.
Chess, a part of the game, crumble like a hopeless pawn or hang on, long enough to trap yourself and become a sacrifice who held on too long. Bodies lay at the feet of the King and Queen, hoping they fell for the ultimate win, but the next game begins, and you are nothing more than a lost face in the crowd, mixed onto another square, though the King and Queen, on only two sides, in only two colors, stand again above you, and you take only one step forward, toeing the line of uncertainty.
Flip the board, let the pieces fall and roll, onto the floor and into the vent, a dog may wander by and sniff at your parts, then devour the King and piss on the rest. Laugh, stop playing, stop trying to play, Chess is redundant, and only the seasoned win. The world's most genius player could be buried by the street's pettiest groveler. Kid's can play, but shouldn't, as every move is another battle lost. Nobody wins, nobody loses. Life is a gift, dying is an honor, everything else is a broken heart, hard road, or blind guess, luck will strike and so will squalor.
