From the plane*

Tell me - hey - do the trees really fold like that? Fold like folded hands (above our folded words) - in same number and same pattern. I think they really do.

And it's that - its things like that which make me sink into purple creases and crinkled dried flowers, to the smell of burning, as it goes up in flames.

We go up in flames.

Aching for the fountains of icy water to reach burning cheeks and sundried hair. And to reach with their full and hearty palms the sweetest finger-tracse of relief, from the bottle-rimmed heat we did camp in.

Complete with smores and tempestuous coals that twitched and crackled against bursts of three formations of laughter. All the laughters, that get released when you find that you've found - that you're far from the plot your parents picked. And the farther we do go, and the wider our calls do stretch, and the more it is that I'm flying home through the sunset turbulence...and the ones I hold dearest aren't there for my return (soon).

And I think we're like that couple who sat at the table to the left. And I think that I missed you already upon waking up and driving by the lake.

And ain't it funny, hunny, that I left flying through a thunderstorm?

(Wonder if it was the very same one)

Wonder where all that GOES - when it goes.

Wonder where all THAT - icy beautiful hands of rain, all that thunder and raucous, all that I want to remember and to have - goes when it goes...

Because you see, maybe it doesn't.

Maybe the clay and brick and tent vinyl soaks it up, deep into the pores of where trees&leaves&heaves, of things, do GROW.

I can see it there - in cloud-fluffy dirt clods I hold and crumble between those fingers and those palms, and it breaks but isn't broken. It pours but doesn't make poor the very first source of its creation after the storm.

Ain't it funny hunny?

My Goodbyes

I think that we never truly get goodbyes. See? For people like us, for people who see it often, feel it often, venture it often.....we never truly use the word quite right - there doesn't seem to be a way to say it right. So then ain't it something light - when we pretend to "cya later".

And you- ohhh you; I wanted words and hours and glances to span the ones we'd lost [we'll never have]; to make justice of the advice you gave - when I suddenly contemplated, all the mistakes I'd pave--d. Mistakes, "mistakes", -sigh- you've been such a first-chapter wonder to the body that I adorn.

To the priestess life! When it is that I walk barefooted and sore in a too-long green velvet cloak...slowly [swoosh] slowly, [as the velvet swipes the heavy cobbles] and I carry one thin red candle...and the wax drips down to my knuckles, and I don't hardly notice how it stings anymore. ...It's a hallway dripping with lace spiderwebs and dazzling, diamond flecks in the muddy crevices, and all the world feels like the bottom of a lampshade when a thick scarf is thrown over it.

The light, it peers.

The light, it douses us soaked.
I used to glance every single time before each ritual, at the streetlamp just outside- that curves just as if its grown from the heavy East Coast branches of the tree-that could swallow it entirely [but it doesn't].

And it satisfied me more than any of my "Wicken" bubbling brews ever did.

It filled my heart, and made me smile and I felt all of that putrid yellow-orange light....like I was soaring heart first into the orb, and upon reaching found it was just viscous, it was just nice. It was just hot enough, and it filled me inside just right.

And there I swam and swam...and felt my legs, and my arms and my tired, tired, hands soothed in the syrup. The maple syrup, the amber wax, that we do pour down our throats-from grooved break-proof glass; some invention of the doctrined state that reigns hard upon our vice-proven bodies..the scarlet flickers of candlelight, streetlight, do GROW the more we consume of amber, and the more we consume of each other. I'm a free-love Priestess.

Or at least I was.
Cause now I stare and stare and lie a different way, and squint and plead, and -sigh-; now it's just a place.


But it's the still the place I'd rather be.

So tell me please, will I remember?
Cause I remember..
... waking up to see the trees of 5 states whirling past in a green barbed fence of leaves and unease. But I felt so very calm. So very tired of course [nothing new], and my body grunted that as I shifted and I saw that you had seen. And I knew that we were driving, "driving in you car, speed so fast.." and we both knew. There was ground beneath our feet beginning to grumble itself, and all our family [that sweet family] is spreading&shifting in their spots..and switching sides...we came in so late...and no one even took notice. But we, we smirked a little too long after each joke that was made....thinking softly, softly, of the yellow silk-it fell just a little down, and your suit seemed just right, and the candleflames quaked, and the motown played, and we moved so, veryyy slowly...and I...

But tell me please, will I remember?
Since right before that answer^^ there's a space between the lines where 10 months are squezzed together into the thing that I'm now feeling.

Since it is that "The most important part of your life was your time with them, that's why you're all here...to remember, and to let go"

Should I leave it there?

I think we just might.

Because I haven't leapt the 3 tall brick steps off the "let go"--though we were certainly there to remember. [Oh I do remember]
And then it must be that we were certainly there to let go.
Close

the soft canvas pages of the leatherbound book.

...and the nauseous morninglight comes through the crack in the drapes and catches the light on my ringed fingers for just a moment.

For just a moment I throw back chin and laugh to no one and smile wider than I can again; and it feels like I'm all enveloped in it all again and we'll see each other tonight, and it'll go like......like it did. -sigh-
So then I pick up the book and feel the leather meet my leathered palms and I sweep the velvet cloak around my ankles and walk back down that the dark corridor, to something always just barely illuminated, ahead....

I'll be on a plane this time soon.

Bid on Me

Have you ever wanted to stand atop a telephone pole? Stand perched with arms up-stretched to reach anything the skies may give you....reach upon the destiny of falling weather, while you straddle all the communications of strangers and their lovers...

See, I'd look down only every once in awhile

to see the vibrations of their messages

shake my base,

and shake the far away ground

upon which a million passengers zip by unforgiving. Unforgiving they've all been; when I've given it [my soul] to the highest bidder. = Unsatisfied customers.

And I've given oil and wax-hot lies to any bidder. = Satisfied though they are. It melts just the same into an epitaph of slippery rock, slick mush. It's just mush in my memory...oozed together into one great fantasy of what we're supposed to.....supposed to [i don't know] something or other....

//

And I've just said what I've put up for auction most...because you see it was all for passion.

It was all a grand circus trick done by a haggard beauty....to keep the striped tent aflame with passionate motions [whichever form they take, they make] in order to create more passionate creations.

In order to create.

///

Here, sit there. Sit down right there-dear treasure friend, and take my seat. It's made of hollow braided wood, and it sits so low in the mushed piles of cigarettes, and neglected revelations of why we come.

Why do we come?..

Watch the door swing to reveal each ribboned carnival sideshow as it comes to pass.

Because it will come, and it,-I promise-will pass. So many have closed their tent and walked on.

And you'll see that soon you know,

and soon you miss,

and soon you look up to that door squeak expecting a face that won't be there,

[from that chair (someone else's seat (sometime else)].

And then it is that you must put your tired dancing feet up on the brick window ledge,

and watch as all the characters itch their makeup-and marvel in their stage markings.

They're so truly wondrous,

[....and so that makes them forever doomed]

and they sweep you from your ordinary life and make you all the tested

-all the tested little one in that seat-

[trying] to match the power of the lightening [always striking outside in the night].

COME ONE, COME ALL!

There's a bedazzled soap box for you too - it was left behind once - just shake the dust from the red velvet striped curtain-

and open up for us another soul to consume...

Daily headphones: "Let Her Cry" by Hootie and the Bluefish, "Aint no Sunshine" by Otis, and "First Week" by Graham Colton