Arcade machine

Oh morning, oh fungus rising, oh leaned over poppies, oh gears of the biker heading down the hill.
Teach me about living now.
How to hold a brush.
How to understand light.

Is to understand only to obsess?
If this character that’s being played doesn’t come forth, then what of it?

To know deep down that this game is more interesting than any a man could make.
The world of temperature, touch, sight, sound, smell and taste more fascinating than one of pixels and data files.
But on some level, knowing they’re all just wavelengths, photons, packets, perceptions the same.

And what is a song but a biological directive, a pulse quickener if done right.
A piece of art affecting another sensory system.
A beat telling the person to rise up like the scary part of a movie soundtrack telling the person to fear.

And if really thought through, time has got nothing to do with it.
Except that a seed needs time to grow.
A spore needs time to transmogrify.
A man needs time to understand he’s not a man but a pioneer of every dimension heading toward his eyes, nose, lips and ears.

To live well is to fascinate well on what’s undead.
The something from nothing.
The process of wanting when there’s nothing to want . . .
but a little more time of pioneer man.
Another quarter into the arcade machine.