Here, strange.

What’s this hangin on me, like diesel mutant muck — ruining the waves of the sea, that are oh- so majestically wide and far out still away… Far out can it now be? And aren’t we saying that in all our writings states apart, there’s always a way out place- and a way out way- and wayyy, whoa, all the things that are lookin’ scary. “Scary good” ain’t that the phrase we’ve been sayin’, cause it’s October…

Oh October, right before the very good — the cosmic month for me when things go so right, —turn right— the cosmic falls, and the place with the log on the lake, and the dusty old crystals I need to replant… All the neglected things in my movements, our moves (they’re good), — and ah hell, a hurdle of deep dense forest too over there. Time for an autumn cleansing, time for a cleanse of a weekend, a walk in the woods —lock the doors while I’m out— inside after all… Or maybe I’ll go out. Maybe we should park and play. 

Maybe the town, and the streets with their seasonal noise — have got something more to tell… Listen like we listened all those years ago in the street that I know and that same damn story that lives inside, in the cobwebs of my missing top hat, in the rings upon my fingertips (though they’re newer), and the lines upon which I do still dance. 

Dance, ah… dance. Can’t we just. In a smoky. sweaty, heave all at once -together with strange sensuality of the nighttime, in the city near the center…of right there on the spot temptation. Tempt all over again that body of what you want — that forested place of where you go to believe and let go. Let go in the only way you can, loosing rules, with another soul. We’re souls rising high against the dawn that makes you smile and trap me up. 

What are these words I’m sayin’ now? That mess of mood board, don’t you see — it’s Thursday on the night where the clouds angrily slide past the moon fighting for the warmth grippin’ the air ill-timed cause it’s gonna change either way. Can’t fight it now it’s here. 

Sweet strange scary here. Slate. 

.

May the moon rise (Boston 1)

.


When there’s thoughts to have next to you, so quiet.

When there’s a place- and a bench for sitting at the end of an old lane, that faces the haunted harbor

And don’t you know, that it’s there. 

In a cab in Boston going in the wrong direction in the right…and those big globes of light at night, seeing them dance (though they’re still); its all movement in the nighttime. Every night that you yearn, to see that missing moon up there - the black clouds blacken and nothing is right — but in just the pace of an inhale there it is, WOW. -pause- See the vibes shining in your mind, so coming fast that you swear — didn’t all the streetlamps just get brighter and dimmer? Weren’t there shadows dancing? Wasn’t it…

Makes it all feel so enchanting-uneasy- you fear and you draw…it in inside. 

Back in the even, weekday-ordinary evening — the woods shadowed back over, and turnabout street on which I now live (some inhales later), the trees, got nothing more to say just yet…just sweet quiet. And I smile at their golden branches — cause I know, we know, they’ll change…mend to the blustery cold sharp winds a’coming — branched into something intricately placed. Cause we find places. New ones, wonderful, -stroll against the wind through, as everything is unfamiliar kind of wonderful… and you can’t remember the last broken break, or entire weekend alone in bed for one. Isn’t that a blessing — and a sacrifice of the words halting on the other side. Isn’t that something.

Halt. But what’s the use of it? Let it, let the delicate faint lines form upon the very walls because it feels right. Left. Up and…well…

Let the ‘scape, and the scope —and hell, all of it that this season burns into the air, in oh-such-fragrant air of Baltimore — be inside plenty of blushed smiles. The day fog lifts and it’s a passion like never before. The leaves, the hot candlelit meals, the layers being pulled off - soft cotton sweaters - then the hot steaming showers when you thank the necessities and the stars. The cold and the heat. 

So dream another morning with me, so quiet. 

Dream amongst the thickened sheets of how we feel, rising high and rhythmically entirely holding on…to the sun piercing brilliantly, angles of the room. 

Beauty. Fall back down again and rest your soul, breathe. 

And that’s the closest lullaby, these scripts of prose. 

That’s where I’ll end for tonight — and may you sleep, in thoughts of magic autumn. 

May the moon rise. 

.