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Shagalicious
The slithered shadows trailed my shag rug, in the foothills of the upright weave of flaccid threads.
Seemingly chaotic, yet made out of pure design and memory: From the hands of its maker, rolled into the flatness beneath its buyer’s feet. Asking “why” looks for the in-between, vast as forever. The math: A hard one and social, but still a math. More of a psychonomic-politecology.
Our bodies are just the same—moving pieces that pretend to be in a vacuum. We aren’t in one, but surely under it every so often.
Pieces who poise in passing places and people; pretending preponderance, betraying imposed predilections, to the preferable exposed.
Psychobiophysic microcosms invoke the such of a macrosomatic glob that is the everything, at least on this atomic chunk.
And so forth,
And so forth.
The gibberish in the rug is a cortex, and so are we.
Copyright ©
B. Joseph Fitzsimons
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