Bushy Eyes (day 1052)

You kind of end up asking the questions that resonate, that jive, that give way to concerned thought and pulsing consciousness. But this is ok, because we’re not supposed to be answering all the questions in monotone, in urban drawl.

Suicide mission.

And when you forget where you live like some kind of filtering drain spout garberating windowless dreams down conformity’s empty hole, you hesitate to ask the questions like my three lettered ‘why’.

It’s going to be ok because I’m going to strap on my wide brimmed cap and lift my eyes towards soulless sunsets and ignore the white short legged dogs roaming these parts. I don’t pat your back because I’ve got angels leaving dust spots, I pat your back because my bushy eyes have bat one – then the other – eye lashes; together independently.

How many moon cries, moon cries.

Leave my moonshine on the dog leash and flatten my glass nose-hips to rose my soft songs. I’m not a lover, I’m a lost song with in-articulate mumbles. I’m Bob Dylan relaxing on the beach with god-spoken sun beams brightening up my day. Loose my verbage you tongue tied nymph dancing about my state of arousal.

Who’s excuse is better? Who is remarkably left alone and wishing for silence. Who’s hands are rattling about the tin drum.

Who is resonating?

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