Monday, October 13, 2008

no one lives to be three hundred anymore


Day 13 & 14
I think they were giants.


serial box heroes and cereal killers got nothing on us.
proof of power is in the rain, don't run
oh origin of life, dear vehicle of sanctity,
wash me in lushness of longevity
so that even in death, i am wet.
reality is complex,
not just because thousands of beasts less spectacular then the crocodile are present in water
but also because it touches upon what is not visible.
blood of the earth, freedom in falling
without the grace of embracing it
nothing grows on the hill except greed.

don't you waste me in the ground.
literally
my toothpaste reads
"J A S O N Powersmile"
(pure, natural, and organic)


i awake with the tail of dreams in my morning mouth
and maybe tails are not truly the ending, nor heads the beginning
memories of a summer spent east brings the rains south
for miles and miles I can see, I feel
the clouds part for his smile
mueseli with honey, chamomile
terrace talks in Rome,
it has been awhile.
i long to flee home now and then
-watch his face reflected in train window panes
dilapidated stands of records, rusty letters, postcards, books teaching Zen
nutella rice cakes and reminiscing
when a simple comfort in a street-pissing world lies
in the old man with a wooden tobacco pipe and sapient eyes
but today the pears are perfect in my mouth



i'm harvesting body paint ponderings and visualizing
the candid light of Austrian snow rooms
quilted red beds and wires that don't exist merely for message transmitting
but for framing mountain blooms
take me home in my white bikewheel ripped dress
if you promise to scatter yourself with me,
i'll be sure to do the rest,
i'll feel less alone.
we rarely make eye contact with the homeless.


head tinglies again. i revisit old fears
a little boy's dove noises in Vietnamese corner dives
minty plum sauce and ink spots, eerily alive
suddenly- swinging from familiar chandeliers
like i was born to love
(you)
a little girl's pink clad squeals echo, frolicking in fall frontyard spheres
as the smokysweet rain plasters dirty blond curls to callow cheeks
acetaminophen flies from cracked car windows
and i feel my heart leaping over the tree innard streaks
the support of self pleasuring hands slip from the cloth chair

i can smell the Santa Ana fire winds
and the orchard ink of his hair.






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