Figurative Hand Memories (day 1061)

So the moon blinked and I saw what I had been waiting to see.
Like sweet flowers and long grass setting in the warm summer’s afternoon sun;
I saw that windows were figurative,
That Angels were literal,
That icons were forgotten memorizations,
And that caveats were the peaks and troughs of her supple skin
My hands caressed so.
My hands caressed so.
My hands caressed like wild winds flirting giant oaks
Drawing shadows as elixir cursed through my thoughts.
Here it danced amongst and on.
Where I thought I had begun, and knew I had rolled back to.
So I swam – figuratively – and saw what I had been waiting to see.

Swings (day 1057)

Because delicate sparks
Flew towards
The sor-cerers pot.
Can you sit
For a while
Just to
Sing me a song
Like there is love
All around
You’re in love
With a sound.
Through my heart
To the ground
Beautiful words
Swing around.

[and the soundtrack to the poem, on repeat if you wish]

Get Out (day 1056)

I’m the rock
– Chief –
The Chief hip hop
Let be. Be
The 1-2-3
A hibby-hibby
The riggy rig real.
You. Don’t. Get.
You don’t get on.
The game, the play,
A blind Laid-ay.
Stippin, steppin
The nasty flip flop.
Cause I take,
A la boog.
Boogity wuug
Boogity wuug
Boogity shug wuug
Cause I’m the Chief.
The Master.
The rock-and-roll
My lady,
– Get low –
My laid-ay says so.
And if you don’t,
You wont.
So take your talk,
And. Get. Out.

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?