Shimmy shimmy shoulders & smile.  Shruggin' n' the sunnin' - swerving n' the sadness burning up lines in the sand.  Dodging smoke in the shade while setting said self down for sleep.  Feeling like I'm in a synthetic synopsis.  Summarizing shit under a polarized gaze.

Bad sushi and Givenchy bullshit.  Prepackaged culture colliding clumsily into a glittery gash of left over importance.  Stimulate then isolate your base, but offer no promises.  Decorate with scripture and evacuate to that next new new.  Logo-hoe statuses & self-posturing.  Cold pleas for electric stove-esque "likes".  Quick to heat, quick to cool, hard to clean.  It ain't the best judgement call...but it's not down there with some of the more perpetrated deviant shit like mid-life crises' of colorful dye-jobs & impossibly tight garments devoid of flattery at bus stops.  Everything ain't Gucci gurl.  Yeah I get it dude; you made a year long investment to save up to stunt up for that 48 hour insta-media cycle where people you know from high school gradually witness your limp life one snap at a time.  Hey...I plead guilty.  Instead of inhaling, I'm in-taking; sipping, regret flipping and taking shots of inspiration.

A millennial driven, God-given blowjob that will last you a few glorious minutes of satisfaction, and months of payments that you can only hope to boost your already below average credit.  Or bust. 

Damn, 186 likes?  You reached a couple hundred views?  Oh shit; Becky with the bad hair now has radical bangs and meek roots.  Much deserved!  Can't tell if your hair is a Milly diss, or Beyoncé sippin' on lemonade.

You want to make the switch babe...talk that talk, but you got me drawing off the cuff.

And yet we judge, because we feel some sort of moral superiority.  I say fuck you, self that just wrote that.  I may get a tramp stamp of Pikachu in a meditative pose upon an all-seeing-eye pyramid composed of a series of interconnected tiny dicks.  Through a selfie stick & while doing it for the 'Gram.  Watch out for me kid.  Current day retro with peso value.  I'm.  Fucked.  Up.

Drop the top and ride through a few miles of influenced life.  Experience a few selfish nods and hope for pretty faces to lie to you.  Tickle your fancy and regret the pleasurable life in the morning.  Feel gross.  Treat it like the normal.  Help someone out.  Help yourself.  Understand the morality under rinsing & repetition.  Rise and shine, ego.  Risk your synapses with not so risqué behaviors.  Ooooo.  You owe a lil' commitment to someone.  But...toss.  Turn even.  Twist the neck, contort the body impossibly and linger in that constant pursuit for shade and numb...

...the Moon looks weird over here.

...ain't shit over here, but words...

...baby...

Going through the motions of emotion.  Take the light fluctuation in stride and embrace the weird as a stranger in strange lands.  Familiar lands.  Lands long self-removed from.  Revisited after a rough warping.  Surveying sushi counters and struggling to click.  Hazy forethoughts that I think have already passed.  Reality is beginning to feel heavy.  Not sure this is for me anymore.

Uma reaction back to a Pulp Fiction reality.  Glimpse.  Pause.  Regret.  Pause.  Flooded memories muddied within the muddle of last night.  Get up.  Suspended and trying to feel grounded.  Take another one in that dirty glass.  What will you do right today?  Do right, today.  You're a pro.  There are things to be done.  Look beautiful.  Automatic motions & emotional clips.  You can do this with both hands tied behind the back pulling on fish hooks puppeteering smiles.  Sunlight the equivalent of whatever was in that brief case Travolta opened.  The yellow glow of something beyond my understanding.  Appreciated, but I'll go ahead and carry on with business.

I probably find myself in far too many internal debates throughout the course of the day.  Majority of them are really, really fucking stupid.  Went through one while sampling soups at the grocery store.  Admittedly...I was fucked up.  Prada aviators diverting passer-by glimpses.  Ancient grain minestrone soup.  The fuck is this.  How the fuck does a grain become ancient?  Best I can achieve is just getting old - and I'm way more impressive than this soup.  The fuck is the half life on this grain compared to that glowing green shit in Chernobyl?  You mean I can use the same terminology with this little puffy thing as I do when talking about a fucking pterodactyl ?  Come on man.  Am I fucking with rice?  Quinoa?  Whatever's in ezekiel bread?  Hit me with some hot, or cold direction here.  I need to know that I'm not about to sample some rotten fucking mummy soup before I nod, act like I'm going to purchase something, toss my spoon and dip.  Before I dip.  Before my blurriness behooves me to run it, run it, run it back to reality.

But I didn't dip.  Here for a simple purpose.  To submerge myself into a cage however far necessary below the surface; anticipating something that intends to kill my current state.  Chum in the water.  I lifted the glass casings and rummaged through the sushi selection.  Not expecting much, but hopefully the idealistic cravings would carry me through the soon disillusionment.  I'm in a weird spot at this point.  Torn every bit as ever between possible motives.  A stalled clutch.  Sliding through paralysis on pufferfish sashimi. 

Front-stroking toward two back-strokes.  Remove the sooner rather than the latter and you got a defined course to sail.  Three sheets to the wind with an unnatural breeze.  Ripples of air not hitting those threads quite right.  Rewindings and remindings of past remedial attempts.  A condescending passerby floating in place, hoping to transcend their short cuts & misunderstandings of such a grave scenario while I ultimately capsize.  Overturned with emotion and position relative to the water line.  Clouds and bubbles intertwining.  Looking up in regulated breath to make sure enough air remains in my lungs that I don't succumb into quite an unfortunate reality.  Worry 'bout the rum.  I'm comfortably floating into the antithesis of your safety.  With every uncomfortable breath strangled by salt, I'm only more and more determined to rise, rip and riff my way out of this shallow reef.  Jungle cats only care to risk drowning should their prey draw them to it.

The sushi isn't that impressive.  Then again, neither am I at that very moment.  I'd only eat half.  Just like the rest of my day would be half-assed.  And what the fucks the validity of Givenchy beef when you have Adidas pride.  You're just really experiencing you.  And you consider them guilty of experiencing them.  For what?  Something about the cumulative build up of experiences to that very lackluster bite might have played a role.  DNA.  Culture.  Walking, tasting, hearing, touching, seeing, imagining, and regretting.  What probably weighs more.  Lump it all into one neat package, like we all love to do, and call it experience.  Something just short of oil and water is where that one rests.

Rewinding back to that very moment, I experienced the let down of just how boring it was to be out doing what felt like normal people do.  Well...I probably did it wrong, to be fair.  Missed a crucial step somewhere while tracing them.  Awkward attempts at making up for lost time.  Measured growth with spikes and prairie flat lines.  Maybe there's just an expiration date on the harvesting of emotions.