Beacon of Beats

Stridefully, Semi-Selfie featuring as seen amongst Manhattan’s Midtown East Murray Hill

Frissoning

All the spaces to stomp
Bearings
that carry
how we’ll marry
the merriment
of global qualities
Small or tall
nearby or asunder
Amorous amulets
You only keep if you’ve found
The pep precept
Treading
Bothering to be
a beacon of beats
Forever playing footsie
with Planet Earth

Your Fitbit may tell you how many steps your feet have taken today. But it will never tell you how far your soul has traveled. ~The Rumi Prescription by Melody Moezzi

I’m habitually en route. I think that I headed out of the womb already in transit. Well-oiled insides from a matrix of sauntering seekers. Herein, I like to believe that I chose my parents largely because they’re multicultural-minded wanderlusters. Meaning, I came in with a good few parcels of my path manifoldly destined to conceptualize each day as an observational present simply waiting for me to tear into it. My cells seem to have cosmopolitan coursing through all of them. They get so jazzed at the mere idea of meeting everything unconventional. Probably still in motion from an odyssey of reincarnated lifetimes, ever propelling me onward. Generically gyrating, I’m a ‘more’ type of babe. Supply me a sampler taste and indubitably I’ll drool over the whole darn menu, as I set my business for devouring. I adore whenever I’m fragrantly delayed due to developing a strange crush on a special particle or person that’s piqued my interest.

Allow me into your unaccustomed places. Let me park my inquiry on your front stoop, in every artistic crack, with all of the stray animals, and amidst human aromas competing against nature’s own bakery. On par with any first-timer, I prefer the puttering gallivantation. Flirting with your prowling around at the perfect pace known as the dawdle or drifting. That which lends one the luxury of creation’s sumptuous consumption. All too often we’re missing so much additional satisfaction. Shall we stop for chess, blowing dandelions in the wind, or ladles of Brodo’s best evahh soup broth? I want to be your date for grunge gatherings, uninhabited archipelago picnicking, a stroll along and non-sewage pre-Olympic dip in the Seine, entering economically-stricken countries’…