the color of television, tuned to a dead channel

Old heads that betray the clingy absorption of an idea grown stale with time but that assaulted at time of a first formative encounter.

Old heads with hungry eyes, satiated with sentience but needing always to feast on what necessarily seems out of reach and lusting after someone with no sell by date or coruscated self respect and eager to be taught about what becoming taut and supple might mean.

Old heads who become accustomed to bodily fatigue but aren’t ever in doubt about being able to outlast death for at least one more minute, how they love the verve and swivel away from being embodied and how beholden they become to calling forth another creative conjuring act, to bringing the felt but unseen back into a focal point of the bright lights on the world’s big stage.

Old heads were once young, uneven, frustrated rebels, tilting at oracular creeds, deeming their forbears fools and walking in steps of the conquering king who crossed the desert sand, the child who had fathered the man.