little children made a song they like to sing
every april comes around…
then one day
the pink moon got away
for me and for you
happily and for
september and we were super together and you were natural like a farmer to me you were a farmer and i coulda been a farmer’s wife with a farmer’s tan and your name written in raspberry juice up and down the curves of my chest and we would not be smiling all the time dripping with honeymoon anymore, for seconds maybe yes, but mostly working and class and working our ass off and classes with glasses cause i don’t see as good anymore gettin older, i guess and history looks a little different behind us if we were to look back upon the vistas without falling into it. i would rather fall into you and what you are doing, the hours behind a wheel of a truck, the 12 hour days or doubles, and yes i am single still, are you? if i pull with my arm will you blast your horns? shine your light this way, my love, we could unite like a night train unites with the night but the day will come when we see things for how they really are and would you want me then would i want you? i love you now and you care about me and that is a tasty concoction with shaved ice hoping not to get crushed at the foot of a celery stalk, melting the summer suns into autumn.
|russian river by Katya|
Your arrival into my life had been so unexpected. I must have done something special to get you for a gift. I was alone and even lonely before I met you, I wonder now, did that have something to do with it? I would bring you pastries and coffee, your favorite kind. You brought me a paper once you took from the neighbor’s driveway. So what? you said, You can tell they don’t read them, there’s a half dozen on the lawn! (Yes, well, maybe they’re on vacation).
|sky by K|
We like it here in our little earthen corner of the wind sky water joint. Don’t we get along swell? I study you within the four walls, floor and ceiling. But never confined, no, always free you are to float toward or away from me and us and this condition cannot condition the unconditionable — that is you. You drive me crazy, whatever whomever however you are.
And many probably do
But not you know who
Others join the green party ranks
Or the army, marching behind tanks
I would move (with you) to Amsterdam or Vancouver
where we could talk on talk radio with the world about
anything but that
what’s behind the label
across the sheltering orange rind
of the navel
To be chicken-wired into a city 4 block radius
by choice. Fast food ideology. To give away your voice
by choice — Berlin, circa 1942
Caution. it might hurt
Planned parenthood (amidst pop-up protests), hazy days and spent nights for dizzy girls spun dry from wet, will never be women to boys will never be men, lucky if a fifth make it to the clinic where everyone’s betting against them, only a tenth make it out half-alive. Fast food ideology. — Chicago, 2016
All washes away, tears and problems and headaches and trash
Flags come out on Patriots Day and how dare you? I love
(my country) too
The pulp is safe and juicy inside
full of nutrients (and whatever’s in the water)
A great decompression hits the air and electricity unloads and picks up pavement like legs over jumpropes. Feelings around the block so diverse and tangential, burning like coals in the eyes and faces of those who live deep in the heart of the American city. Every AMERICAN city unified, from Quebec to Tijuana, Houston to Montreal, Toronto to Rio de Janeiro. Feelings catch on and so alive!
We will need no lighter fluid. You and I
The solar flares (sent by sun) have arrived
My skin so thin and traveling has been hard to endure no matter how local it could be the neighbor and dare i dial your number and be confronted by you and me.
My mind unreal looks for finality in rituals which have no end. Shopping the last pear half or double dozen of egg. Wishing i may never bleach the bathroom again.
All work to go away with every single necessary interaction. The ceasing of small pleasures even, only to take more sleep.
Only to dream nightmares more real than conscious reverie and only to wanna end to those, too, and only to wake to more dishes and emotions to contend…
and the very great pressure of you waiting for me to prove myself real.