Blue like the azure and profoundly deep seas of antiquity.
Red like the vermilion and earthy caves where the walls are decorated with the myths of our mad forefathers and our disappointed foremothers.
Such a beating it was, blue and red, not black and blue as you would normally bruise.
There was a bleeding poeticism to this violence, it appalled me. But it appealed to my maniacal sense of rhythm.
But when I tell it, people just shriek and dance.
Dancing is the shrieking of the physical language our bodies speak.
Language is an aggregate of ideas and we are all out of thoughts.
If that was the case then evolutionarily speaking, why do we say dumb things?
I am not right, I am composing an ode to being wrong but gracefully so.
Then again it could be said that to be wrong, at its very root, is an ungraceful state.
But I would like to smuggle just a little grace into this state.
Smugglers are just jugglers who toss contraband at the border and catch it on the other side.
Theirs is an entertaining enterprise.
If you worked that hard to get anything, you should be able to keep it.
That is the ancient law written by the bees who came down from the mountains and took this new domain with their tirelessness.
If bees are never tired, then I must be a wasp in a bee costume.
And if the clouds get any darker, it will rain.