Dusty Boulders (day 1857)

Take this blood and run it along an irregular line from here to there, for there is no longer a fountain of youth screaming for more sticks and balls; left for dead there is only a pulse of electricity surging away into a stream of monotony.

But where does each screaming echo fall?

Twisting it’s way through sandstone crevices along a dried river basin, footsteps led aimlessly uphill in search of a higher plateau that might offer a view of the future, or lead to a three feet wide round door of periscope and a three strands of hemp rope holding a dangling sign that read: “Welcome. Please come in.”

If all was lost, there would be no now, for now is not lost as a pinch can accost.

While large maple leaves unfurled to beckon in the Summer, a slow and sweet amulet of sweat rested nicely between the bosom of naked pixie, casually watching the dried river splash over dusty boulders.

Stained Messenger (day 1856)

I’m beginning to like the taste of ink on my skin
Bleeding in black
And letters wrinkled symmetrically
With stamps that now stick
To the wings of an unnamed messenger
I have envisioned as Hermes
In a short and stubby auto
With running shoes and arch supports,
And a stripped button up
With wings emblazoned upon the breast-pocket.

Golden Drink (day 1854)

I’m running around
In cat screetching circles
Complete darkness
And two golden girls;
How do the ends come,
How do we lay down plans?
And as we watched the twilight spread
A little voice came and said:
“Let your vices go
All shall be good
And in the morning you will
Return once again to drink.”

Ageless Rhythm (day 1853)

Your holy high is the rise to my shine
A moment of passage in mind
With a long list of ancient goddesses
Calling out my wild name.
Pause to reflect, innocent syndicate
Step light with our toes
Toes toes toes toes
In forever reverberate
Get undulated pride high
At the top of my wigwam
And dance on
To the ageless rhythm of our bright future.

Ageless Rhythm by Ned Tobin

My Poor Lily (day 1852)

Where is my calling?
Have I baked it away with smoke
Resting aimlessly slobby
And ignoring the obvious answers
With clearly obnoxious results
And a banter of insults
That leaves dizzying spells
To wilt away my poor lily?

Betwixt Breaths (day 1849)

We are all lonesome lovers
Shivering in and amidst breaths of lovers,
Shaking cobwebs that illuminate
Brief moments of terror and grasping
In a way that never quite becomes us.
Yet laughter sounds cheerful,
Spells swirl betwixt elated breaths
And night dies down
Into faint yellow spotlights
That ominously glow to remind us
It’s not yet morning.

And in a moment he heard her speak
And night did come alive!
All around was sparkling truths
That moaned against the moon,
While pixies danced and ran around
A beaming fire in play,
And there, as it was,
Made just for us to touch,
Warmth of everlast did lay,
Till morning had its way.