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porcupine
USA
193 Posts |
 Posted - Aug 17 2009 : 01:14:16 AM
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what is life? flo, is the source of the cowbell that brings dessert, the dessert of freedom of no mind from no intention and happening in stance for application in a quasi relative tree called life, the arden wind blows here, why?
silent knowing, poem reading in dark in naked stars
with things, ashes, distilled water bottles, from deer park, the significant, ocean in my heart on the frame of the couch where my sister slept. She was me as I was dreaming, days and nights in the real world, grass and willows and a whole open field where we ran, and made ourselves things from the clouds and the branches
the crickets still sing and what do they feel I ask, opening colors in my own book, lasting until the hill returns
back, back to the bottom of the heights where we lived, and gave things their faces surrounding us, us saying no people and nothing, us being replaced me, why? they fall on couches, they roam in houses, they are blown away, and again, my heart beats to the rhythm of the world, and the world is my soul reflected, moving me through dreams, pulling me closer by the seams by some dramatic clause, in this play on this stage, that is default that is forgotten, and returning every time to the memory of the story that he told me when I sat there
by the fire
hearing crickets
in the ether
blowing
invisible air
through pockets
of dry wheat
like an oars person who'd seen the light from the tunnels
and become a reflection, love flows
in every month on forgettings
your systems have show their insanity, we face the sky
I was high with butterflies dancing and it nourished the alphabet soup
that had spilled over the ground
again, you were there, quietly waiting, smiling and your eyes were pretty
when I remembered
the moon
the clearing, around us
everywhere, there was singing
we weren't here before
the mushroom ring where these spirits come
to join us in a metaphor
nothing like a good metaphor
to take you to the core
of an apple that is very poor
and rich like two men
who cannot see the simplicity
in being just dead.
alive, is the fretting bird
alive, is the roaring day.. and blazing sun and superstition
falling into your dreams that leave your fancies unwinding
like hunger without a thought of food
I love Flo she is the best
it all composed in the mess of your cities and defined in the den of your rooms
and left in a nomads heart, who only sways in every way
the pull could take him
unregistered magic mama, this is where I was born
the water I sipped at the roots of the hemp plant
I was a fairy, I was secretly the sun and moon
and telling every moment in bloom
she is the lark, the song they sing
one last time
and
one more time
in the subway, that looks like a cigarette, that brings us back to your center
where you appeared flung from everywhere
pomo child, now I remember.
and there is nowhere to go but still we will make it there
everything is possible
following heart and dreams in ness
on a wanti picnic table, where the ants came once to feast
delusional and mad love God gave us
made real
runoac and sitting log
sayaizen, sayaizen
made it real home in our souls
yonato, water bowls and the formless reaching far into our lives
in every word on all the trees and doorway portal upto slinks through them all saying
i am a poem of you |
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the sitting log
