There are pathways, an intimate grid, leading to boulevards with dimly lit gas lamps because the history that we share goes beyond the times of the now.
There are blue aching planets waiting in line behind this one, and if I blink, I might miss you, gazing at me.
You thought I didn’t notice.
Like a mysterious treasure hunt I am ripe for the delightful diatribe. I shrink back, await the attack, think what luck. You’ve already found out I’m really fucked up.
Like me anyway
Wanna touch my skin
Feel the scars
Where the love lines begin
Hippy. Skipping flowers wrapped ’round flat rocks on ponds. Some days it’s a miracle I go on. Where light seems dark and dark seems light, lines go away, and I’m left.
There’s a language of the blues. It is unspoken. It doesn’t exist in thought. It moves independently. And how do those words become human?
This multiplicity requires time clocks to organize the thoughts.
One replication brings a thousand more words and millions of voices needing to be heard.
I saw the black moon today. She was spiraling quietly in the misted dark sky, and the stars stopped their shine to reserve for the battle.
It was peaceful.
Like a closed flower asleep at sundown we wait the signal. Soon it will be time to spring open.
The onlslaught arrives tonight. Weeks doubled. I am protected with the twinkling eye of the golden tiger and the midnight cover of darkness.
Be swift my hands and feet.
We are running to keep the lungs open enough to hold the weeping set to arrive.
In the silence.