Meditation

Meditation.

Except the movements are essential to the plot thrust, flicking

on the cooling lot, breeze between impacts shattering a Sunday morn.

Repeated acts of self injustice for anguished triumph,

revived from the rolling wind, next up, a certified

crowd pleaser! Old geezer gearing up for a pop, calculations

rectifying a week's drained concentration. SHIT!

A god damn pebble. Heart and mind incline expanding

my magic repertoire blending acrobatics with victimless

combat kicks. “you types are dirty lunatics.”

Good o'l days chants igniting the bold in the efforts to

turn tricks on battered streets. Spot to spot,

obstacles at stop lights or Park Heights lead up to a

rail’s bitter bite. Fourth try makes it worth it. Tunes

to fight a firing squad pushing along white lines, fist

bumping hellacious Angels have bombing beside on iron

Stallions; rebels recognizing a fellow

death defier on the lam.

Sleep is for the daylight crew, midnight gliding, hiding sweat

before it soaks the shoes, purge the all mighty Blues.

Directions to nowhere, Spitting on Google maps,

burning through the music apps. Deep thinking while skitching

to mountain tops, avoiding concerns from the

cops but what’s a lone concrete roller to twilit docile knights

forty minutes before their shift’s end. One

last tre-flip to tease the budding sun, no need

to boast this insomniacs fun, the mind is won.

Meditation.