elevator to the moon

It’s all about the transitions, as oft I’ve been quoted…which is really just big fancy talk to justify a certain restlessness of the body. Just can’t sit still, can’t stay put, can’t get comfortable…but it’s groovy, because why stay put anyhow? We don’t hold stillness amidst a sea of motion, no, that is quite an illusion of inverted reality– it is stillness that holds us, as motion is all we really are. Our names are just labels for a singular, mostly unique gyration of the cosmos…one that generally takes no longer than a mere 100 years to complete. Time to just man up, strap in, check ignition, and hope that God’s love be with us…because every time I watch the Challenger explode it reminds me of a love affair I participated in once upon a memory. By the looks of my chest you’d think she had claws, and by the looks of her face you’d think we had it in a rainy day puddle. Despite all her heroic efforts at doing her own hair and makeup, sweat and strain paint far more lovely, far more down-to-reality tones upon a lady; chiseled mascara blots into gaping craters from which sharper appearing eyes can peer; neat sprayed pinned down hair explodes into frazzled flame like the burning bush of Moses; lipstick streaks across the mouth like blood under tire tread. Much more visceral. Much more natural. Passion creates rapid expansive motion at maximum impact…and isn’t that the point of everything? Name me a better one. I dareth thou.