Creaky My Limit
The only way to stop being lazy is to stop being lazy.
Fidgeting and nudging and ravaging through the shop, I experimented with jewelry for every digit. Ten total, even thumbs not bare, like the Indians of forefathers. Cherokee the lineage, 1/16th I am said to be. Had I been 1/8th, college tuition awaited with grants of enormous proportion and feathered delight. Strike that, strike three they said, 1/4 is the cut-off to claim reparations. Separations from those loved, the digits I spoke of, still intact. Ten they were, now thumbs removed and dainty pinky too, resulting in form seven. The lucky one. But don’t tell. A dazed delusion I drifted, so eloquently into slumber. I rest now, but not from lack of desire.
The only way to stop being productive is to stop being productive.
No dreary eyes or droopy heart can get in the way of this divine progress! Stand for nothing, but sit for everything, they told me. That way, if the news is damaging, you can’t be knocked to the ground. You’re already there. How are we measuring production anyway? I can think of a few ways, but not nearly nearly dearly hardly enough.
The only way to stop being me is to stop being me.
Perhaps I stopped long ago. What would it matter anyway? No matter. Anyway. Not true. Everyday. I am still me, and I still write even after my fingertips have gone numb and my brain is on “oozing out of the ears” mode. Ears for listening and ooz and ahhz, quiet yourself as the splendorous euphoria is underway.
Bryan May
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