November 13th, splashes of death, soul-metamorphoses and possessive attachment through cracking voices and tears form a tempest, a jazzy storm through every human transportation center. Teardrops crash into each other as we fall arm in arm carrying all our resentments and awkwardness. Mars backing up then launching himself commences with hundreds of thousands of slingshots smothered in petroleum careening through the air and landing on cars, buses, planes, trains and legs like splatter paint. The guttural, needy groans push and pull our vehicles toward the severe abandonment of what had felt lacking.
We’re all this motion and, too, a coyote who gives our needful grunts a higher pitch. Mounting our tricky, hairy animal selves with fire in our eyes looking at sunset and dawn, and at the strands of all those who had just passed into divinity, we utter howls right along with that coyote, sending celebratory missives to all those threads of soul. Walking up a suspended marble staircase, nauseous at the height but our jumble of howls triumphing over the cacophony of fear, we serenade what’s finally been freed after its desperate struggle.