What am I upon, this thing called life? It's giant, a big serpent, heaving, bobbing, weaving, saddled with me on the seat.
It wakes up in the morning and blows its fiery nose. It puffs out to stretch. It has some of those sidewise flapping skin scales to thrust forward to make its head look bigger. Then the form that it is, it exerts, a brow like the slope of a '52 Chevy, the two big piercing eyes, and a snout like a hood, going level till it suddenly becomes a mouth. At the mouth there is a sparkle, with the tongue forked and darting. Snake saliva.
It is demanding of any and all of its whims, to rear back, to advance forward, to tick tock side to side like a dancer. I can see the beautiful scaly pattern that it has, through no effort of its own, that it wears like the fashion. It's nude but proud, naked.
What a seething mess life is once it's awake. It strikes out on its own, demanding its way, eliminating, ingesting, thinking of its proud place in the world. It's very decent of the world to be here to put our feet on. And that gravity is ever vigilant. And that the air is ripe enough to breathe without waiting. And that there's room.
The striking out is the thing that I'm really thinking of. We're entitled. Here I am. I comb my hair before I go out with the dog. There's a carload of kids, off on a common destination, happily talking, yelling, barely contained, like straining themselves at it. Piling more in, but each is one. They'd make the news if the van went over a cliff. With the doors shut, we can assume they're still talking and laughing. And once they're out of sight, the same thing, but it's silent in that vicinity.
As to my own thing, aboard the big lummox, I'm feeling fairly well adjusted today, maintaining a healthy buzz like I like. I've had a cup of green/black tea mix, milk, OJ, a bagel with faux butter and peanut butter. Everything's working as normal. Checking the gauges on my heart, my spleen, my joints. My brain is settled in its place, comfortable, swinging in a hammock, looking ahead to a day of pleasant back and forth. I have streams of something ascending at the edges, which is beautiful like the water bubbles on a jukebox. That's the way to live. A few verses here and there to tweak the soul. Then you bring it all in. It's happening out there, it's happening in here. The two places happening are one. So that's cool.
There are so many things to keep track of. The kids in the van are gone. But there's plenty of life happening all around. I didn't think kids had big wheels anymore, but I can hear the hollow plastic tire sound that announces one's in the neighborhood. Strange thing to hear on a Saturday morning. And there's a yapping dog on the serpent too, straining his throat to proclaim he's a nuisance. The big wheel turned out to be a miniature motorized car a kid can ride. Which is good. A lot less strain on the knees from peddling. Just sit there and let the motor take you home.
I'm overshooting the mark. Time to edit and go on.