Metabolic Pareidolic

The frayed and stringy rip in my jeans resembles the guitar smashed by Pete Townsend at London’s Railway Tavern in September 1964.

And what about that random oil spill wandering across the ocean?

Some say its form echoes Matisse’s Blue Nude, while others claim it’s a dead ringer for L.A.’s five-level Pregerson highway interchange.

Does this mean we’re all connected—

whether stuck in our cars, or posing for an animal-loving painter whose wife and daughter were part of World War II’s French resistance?

Somewhere across the world, a cat coughs up a hairball, the spitting image of Tutankhamen’s face.

Some claim he was only a D-list pharaoh, yet his tomb was immaculate: a death mask fashioned from gold and semi-precious stones, an iron dagger crafted from a meteorite.

If I paint myself blue and pose nude atop LA’s five-level interchange, a cat toy in one hand and a space rock in the other,

can I say I’m at one with the world?