Grace
Land
the miracle of everything is that nothing is a
miracle. it is meticulously fabricated
with a piece of yarn, knitted delicately by fabled hands that personifies as a
cosmic cloud in the middle ground of bullshit. it is vulgar. it is nasty. it is
the epitome of garbage dumped, but unlike those fields of nonsense-plastics, these
fabrications are wonderfully designed. like a boxed television that used to broadcast
The Brady Bunch but now is a place holder
as a rock for us to trip on. pixelated crystals housing colors that trained the
human eye to pay attention, speakers broadcasting canned laughter from a
trapped studio audience for enjoyment, but it now sits, cord ripped, unable to
deliver its message. but it once did. we need not grieve a new home for human
machines that have lost their value, because it does not matter that the value
has diminished, it matters that it had value at all. a point in time. a point
that time recalled can cause a memory reflex to trigger and gather up a
storyline and a plot that gives gifts unto those that recalled. a baby born can
grow into a man, fall from grace, leave behind a legacy but die a travesty, leaving
behind a blessing and a curse. and who holds the puppet strings. who molds that
yarn like clay. who is the mastermind of all this garbage, all this mismanagement.
who cares. for the miracle of nothing is that everything is a miracle.
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