Friday, July 13, 2012



a babbling wake sounding resurrection in the garden again and again with leaf and feather flowering sounds of steam unfolding each mind’s punk weeding hemp once smoked by those now too dead to embody their desired peace


purities claimed for burning in the smoke lodge with your mother


that music all day and night fading as we fade when part and parcel of some riotous core informing notorious childish faces rosy with red flower bud illumination kicking ass in a station wagon going nowhere fast needing futile comprehensive inanities likening themselves to each other just to get along echoing pre-war forms of right and wrong sugarcane milling sweetnesses mixing long extravagant magnolia absorptions inside the song with the sky grasping that third kinda chick t’ain’t arn t’at all


rocking like that odd apple hanging from the twisted tree in our mind


antennae tuning our interior weather channels to usable universes playing notes of some midnight train’s distant whistle indicating our vacant seat promising tomorrow’s window ticket tonight feeling the axe view that’s leaving the leaves alone while spilling the sky from its station


swirl It down the drain like anything else inside the mirror

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