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The flight of small birds

I build mobiles. I dabble in the articulation of lifeless things, not always profitable. Shore birds are on special this month. I’m taking a loss on everything. Yes, taking a huge hit; on the thinly pigmented colors that fade after one summer, on the lidless eyes. On the eye-hook joints, on the whirligig inefficiency. On the discretionary maiming of small birds that get too close. On the predatory preference for brightly colored males. It’s not a blowout so much as Total Inventory Holocaust. I’m taking a huge hit, but there’s the excitement of unconditional ruin. Failure without reservation or limitation- total fucking nonsuccess.

It’s a leap of faith, but inspiration will save me. I’ll be thunderstruck by my own genius. It’ll be difficult to function in the brilliance. All-in-all, a comprehensive gobsmacking. The streets will run purple with the telling of my legend. Observance is compulsory, even the feeble and infirm shall not be excused.

Non-articulation comes in cycles, but the leverage is massive. There is great, patent-able potential in any mobile, as well as in any ignorant thinking. Balance is key, and physical phrasing, as are other notions not conducive to my talents. Still, every client gets a questionnaire. Environment, desired effect, weight, structure, materials (post-consumer, exotic, etc.). Exposure. Propulsion (wind, magnetic, superconducting loop, insect, etc.). How funny to see how little I’ve learned about all of this since I left the flies scurrying all over your inner windows.

I can’t help but think how much easier this would all be if gravity wasn’t dressed in duct tape and plastic bags. Fucking gravity. The ragpicker of physical law. Newton’s anal beads. The thyroid of the known universe. The typing exercise, the individually wrapped cheese. The stage laugh. The bean skin in your teeth. The unrecognizable drip down your inner ass. The dark ‘ that’s just sweat, or…?’ thought. The emergent anal bead now utterly removed from any remembered event. Everything comes full circle, eventually. Even the things you’ve since forgotten. Now it’s all capillary bowl. I still put my pants on one arm at a time, but my hat never comes off.