I don’t throw darts at balloons, I throw balloons at darts.
—Joe Montana

The invention of consciousness
was as brutal as it was the birth of the past
tense. The past itself not a place, but the echo
of a place. Placation, endless rearranging
and no tables to speak of. Memory
is a bag of grapes from the grocery store.

The supermarket does nothing for the depiction of chaos’ position
….in the universe.

We are a more durable smoke, or if you prefer
a more gooey fire. What I would really like
to know is what isn’t a moving target?
We are all concerned with the weather
of limitation. Power is made of mostly
overrated, what’s important is how we handle
the indignity, the reaction. Greatness: soft eyes
to see everything as a blurry whole, not to lull
in expectation, but to see opportunity in a world
where nothing is fixed. Between distance
and chaos there is free will, or if you prefer
something more ornate, there is the opportunity
for the staggering. But I digress, everything that does
not need you is real.