by Pandora Peoples
What would I do without creatives whose synapse-firing milleflorium-axon-consciousness allows them to take flight through the universe, like balls of lighting sparking plasma-producing liberated colors and psychic firewalls that defy the conception of dinosaurs like deadbolts whose attempts at locking theoretic doors with technological sign posts are vibrationally dwarfed and outdated despite what the data indicates on the physical plain, sometimes. The creatives in their tribal moccasins and flame retardant cesium-proof leather co-polymers derived from rainforest booty and antler marrow..(from a moose who group-married a whole marketing department of PETA-neo-hippies in a hapless shotgun wedding on a commune in Idaho, which harmed none but ended in questionable 'birthmarks' and rumors of divorce)....armed with isms and antiquated diction, archaic beauty, and punctuation marks that are relics of the past...
Taking heed of fair weather warnings, an elaborate scalersquare-dance of gratitude involving the juggling of frozen hail the size of grandpa's dioxin-induced tremulous back tumors, entertains grandpa on the back porch of his foreclosed home, which is now in a lump of pickup sticks. The piles don't smart anymore with the frozen flag from the Kiwanis clubroom for an icepack. The artist samurai, a brethren linguist of peace, grips the balls of a sodium-addicted vector in a disembodied tango for two as part of a spectral debate. The vector, whose DNA is more elliptical than most...part this...part that...ceremoniously feeds like a rat on the circus leftovers of manufactured disaster and dissonance under a false idol with other rats in drag. Leeching vampirism and sadism is the only aphrodisiac the stinky old rat knows.
It's a balletic waltz through the chambers of mixed metaphors, through the house of mirrors, fractured by corporate mantras and religious ideology, refracted by ideals and agnosticism and guarded by those whose breath never asks ethical questions, by those who hold their children up under the magnifying glass like ants to the sun...In one false click all privacy is stripped. 'Please don't make me accept the terms and conditions which allow access to my mail, my contacts, all of my documents and personal information which will be disseminated through the biliousness and gall of your organization to whomever you please for whatever purpose you fancy. It's worse than Mayan sacrifice.' "OMG! The Bible of Our Personal Secrets (Comcast Publishing House, ed. Skype PR, 2020) just came out, it's a collection of every unpublished thought anyone ever had in their laptops. Four thumbs up all the way!"
What are those creatives up to now? Wizardly swan dives? Tiptoeing through the tulips...spying out the backdoor of the safe house never looked so intellectually mangled or emotionally crippled. The boardwalks of superficial delights never looked like such plasticine paradise. Is it truly a breech of contract to be yourself? Being inauthentic is a haunting uphill climb to battle lifelong dis-ease. The creatives hold steadfast to their souls, taking to the air like bats when the fair winds hit. They take surefooted tap dancing steps, screaming while meditating, meditating while screaming, reaching for the flowers amid the false, the fresh amid the dying. They praise the delicious whipped cream and other delights of the torpid tundra and the morbidly vicious. They see the rubies in the eyes of the contortionists, the sultry gate of the gladiators, the wilted soul of the status quo robots who think they won't be fenced in. They adore the pretty thieves who archive the petals of original personality to wear like floral bonnets. Ah, the orchard of humanity, in all its fragrant versatility, shape, taste, color and melody. Traversing through the many layers of this strange contradictory place is a delectable affair for the curious mind and the body mobile enough to move furtively away when necessary.
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