I’m not screaming at the TV or making threats. I’m not even driving. I’m all spun out. Racists, white nationalists, fascists...stuck in spin cycle as the souls on ice thaw, dripping away the coast line, acidified.
Meanwhile, back in the jungle, genocide goes on unnoticed as commodification continues, as seen from the final frontier. Scrapping over scraps, players big and small agree...the world is not enough. I’m spun out.
Moms in the kitchen cooking up spoons, and I don’t care. Did I tell you here, yet? I’m spun out.
And it’s not raining today as planned.
I’m so micro that the macro spins to slow for me to know, if it’s vertigo, or my brain going Vesuvius. The Crow caws seven, staccato. I don’t know, for nothing because I’m not even awake, but spun out, already.
I’ve got no dog, or dog in any fight. I’m my own animal, cage free, waiting on Social Security. Outside of the spin I reside in the still of the well spun, outside looking in. My own little cyclone spun, or cast out of the mass delusion into my own orbit, stilled now...stationary; spun out.
Not lost in space, I see right where I am, high and dry, in the doublewide and back to abstract, in spades spun out. I’ve never been happier, ever.