The rampaged intent to burn my skin in the sun,
and to press my shoulder into the hard side of a heavy, plywood greenhouse that NEEDS to be moved.
The hands and fingers in the dirt.
The sweat stinging the eyes.
The action, the action, the action, the action!
THE FEELING THAT I AM, SOMEHOW, AN ANIMAL.
The spikes and horns on all spitwords shouted at other drivers,
and the loudness of drumsets and piano soundboards.
The genuine feeling implanted in one's mind
that what was once feared to be the whimpering, remaining outline of a failed firework,
is actually a long-since distracted dervish of solar energy
about to roar with the throat of a wind tunnel.