Cotton candy lie under a cotton candy sky. Cotton candy tongue turns to cut & stinging gums. He dates a woman who lives on W 109th. I thought I'd learn by now, but here's to doing it twice *clink*. I'm a vigilante, twilight lover who never knew I had it in me. Never knew I could stomach breaking the laws I make, never knew they'd let me.
People are not for keeping, cause we all ought to need both hands to hurdle the task at feet. The track is ripe, under liquid sun and swords of sleet. Forget escape: you are fearless. Forget saving face: your visage was never intended for preservation.
Be thankful for who's paths you get to temporarily trample, as they make way for your body. That of which is an extension of your soul into the physical world like the tip of the iceberg that rests above water. Its the part that shows you're still floating. Cheers, peace, indigenous pace... forget godspeed. Let's walk tonight and talk tonight to the blue spruce that line the cracked driveway.
Homemade ginger ale
Berries and gruyere
Bacon grease in a jar
Cat clawed up the chair
The golden hour flourishes: it makes the house smell like a t-shirt drawer. The wood whispers as I give it a stair and step up a set of thirteen. All that's been cloudy becomes clear as I forsake my vertical nature by way of a vintage chaise... throw a throw over me. Aftermath of a day, long division of a year. My eyes shut like the date... onto the next number. We're really making headway, aren't we?
What is our point in documenting the date? To keep track of what? The numbers acclimate, then we die. So what's the date for?! To feel nice? Nice is fleeting-- fluid is all we know: suspension and buoyancy. Does dying disrupt our floating status? Perhaps life is just consciousness, in one form of which there are many.
What is emotion? I am drawn to say it is as the weather, and is not as the Earth we walk or the water we wade. It only has random power to change landscape with tornados, monsoons, blizzards, floods. Emotion does its "damage" and we build bridges across the caverns. If emotion is as the weather, how can it feel like a definition? I suppose if it rains, you'll get wet. And that feels wet. Really, like water. But, my soaking hair stays its color and my height, its number. Certainly my name remains the same, my memories happened, and my dreams still nightly. I'm just wet and its all I can think about until the thunder ceases to roll and I dry in the afternoon sun.