Tag Archives: Saturday

Framed (day 1898)

Framed, I calculated an unnerving amount of resistance that spread like wildfire into Westward directions, of which of course I had no control over yet still tried to impart my wisdom and hence strength into the combined force of what I could not really understand.

So from A to B related my conceptualized compassion that hadn’t yet fully been realized, described as it may have been impartial as it was, was released into the atmosphere that concluded the segmented destruction I had begun at once, since I was always hanging around at the door.

Did you mean it?

I, for one, hadn’t lied since the conceptualized rhythm had taken hold of my toes and left me writhing aimlessly upon the cold, hard floor encircling my conceptualizing and leaving faint ellipses of my heated innards, heated imprints of smudging recollection slowly evaporating.

Yet you. You. You you you you you! You hadn’t had a word of truth since your mother siphoned ink drops from your stained fingers to extract what viciously romantic letters you had sent to the tightrope walker of your dreams. How could you remember such blithe moments of innocent lust, only scattered in pajama pants of a sleep-over with two bottles of soda pop rattling against nevermore.

So I thought my captain’s hat was an excellent choice to begin my journey with. I thought my heart had a marvelous lagoon illuminated by fireflicking effervescence – like lightening bolts for my neurons jitterbugging their way past each other in such a hurry A to B, A to B, A to B to one two three for I am lost in the conceptualized space of lighting bolts upon the cold tiles of this broken bathroom’s shore.

Framed, I left no remark, no emblem, no Saturday night band-aid to recollect seashells from the forest floor – blown. No deafening roar lifting up my coattails I had left begging at the door. No satin sheets too stained for use and frayed at the edges in bad need of delicate iron’s pour. No guilt nicely crumpled up inside a warm cocoon, marsupial, canonized, capitalized, heavenly guilt-free and framed, alone with torment.

Days of the Week Poem (day 1332)

Butter me on Sunday
Split my hands upon the door,
Call the lady Monday
At a quarter after four.

Lunnegan Lunnegan Lunnegan Sat,
Place your bets here and I’ll make you a stack.
Gone is my friend, night after Tuesday.
Biscuits and rawhide are left in the mud.

Every missed Friday
Is a Wednesday fallen flat.
For opening the windows
Comes Thursday tru-ra-loo lore.

Maybe Today (day 1070)

I am flying above your most beautiful memory;
A tiptoe Tinkerbell tapping lightly.
[The old fir who never asked Mother
To learn what a life could really mean.]
Like a thought that followed a lazy bee
On an endless journey through paradise;
An earmark upon pages of a three quarter full diary.
[Wild leaves and sweet salmon-berries
Living in unquestionable synchronicity.]
Falling into subconscious memory;
Movement stepping towards a place,
A place feeling just like home does on Saturday morning.
[No forgotten apple weeps alone,
Returning to Mother in a final commitment of
Love, Energy, and all things unmentionable.]

Coffee Mugs and an Umbrella (day 958)

We smiled and held hands
Walking through the rain
With a dollar store umbrella
Bending backwards at the knees
But that’s ok
Because we’ve got our Vancouver
Take away coffee mugs
Gripping tightly to the warm feeling
That’s slowly enveloping
This Saturday morning
Satisfaction

Deep Crimson Baskets (day 658)

Shallow pools of unspoilt water
Sit below a Betty Crocker window
With hanging deep crimson baskets
That fill the air
With freshly baked flowered Mondays
Spreading out is the pony picket fence
That shines White House Tuesday
Separating the gumshoe green grass
From the oilskin decay
Of the Red Riding Hood forest
Sporting Wednesday’s haircut
Half-way there
Here’s where the country house patio
Holds the dad’s weekend project picnic table
Thursday’s moldy sandwiches
Crawls into cracks upon the Indian paintbrush deck
Where Friday morning dew drops
Freshens up the green spots
Under the Saturday afternoon oak
That tickle the fresh from shower toes
Wiggling for joy amongst the John Deer grass
Where taste tests start
Out of the Sunday brunch basket
Two drive-in lovers packed
For their dollar store romance
Fresh in from the Marilyn Monroe raindrops
Settling the shallow pools of water waiting
Under the Betty Crocker window