There is no order and there is nothing we can hold onto that is called order.
Wires swoon from rooftop to pole, each house is captained by a pirate, and
chaos instructs the solution to every problem. We are a nation of handymen
and alchemists; creativity swarms these barricaded streets.
There is no order and there is nothing you can hold onto that is called order.
Radio stations fall silent, there is no produce at the corner stand. A neighbour
passes you fresh eggs and you repay her with access to the garden hose
running across the balcony or a lift to the centre in the taxi your
brother-in-law drives.
Daily life is rigged with ingenuity and the tally of debts. Expectation is
yesterday’s luxury. Today is black and white, a repetition; that is all. If colour
distracts you, reach for the orange stain of a tea bag. The underbelly of a
violet cloud may be all you manage.
Water travels downward, unless. The sun will rise tomorrow, unless. The laws
of nature may be the next to abandon us. Instinct guides us to close fingers on
whatever comes to tighten the fist, unless.
