Super Tuesday

February tries to be everything and fails. Fails at everything but black snow and dead skin tossed by chill breezes over economy-grade Appalachians eroding from awe I owe the sky with deep gratitude. Gratitude, now burned away like Camels’ poisonous ash that gave so many moments of bliss unavailable to the brain chemistry of brownshirt kooks in my jetstream. In a sense I am being interrogated by a sewing machine— searched for predictions by a critical object looking for my weakness and finding my memories on a dancefloor of trapdoors where the outcome of their fall is known/unknown. The future waits. One day you may find it came too soon. One day more and you may find yourself freer than a red balloon absconding with a crystallized rainbow blazing in the sky. Kaboom.