Mountain presses sky

A rising reddening mountain

set against my pink sky.

States of matter change.

Snow returns to the peak,

with the seasonal shift.

Dripping downwards.

More will follow,

like bulbs remembering how to

burst forth in full bloom,

after being held back in a hard

petal enclosure.

Blustery and Blushing

A crisp breeze whips through us as we walk.

I look to your forearms

in anticipation.

Each breaking out in thousands of little goose pimples.

Reddening the skin.

Your face flushes as your blood vessels respond to the

change in ambient temperature.

It turns you to a blushing man.

Your eyes go childlike and I can imagine

your childhood face, even though I have never seen it.

The one you wore when you were fresh and new.

Before you knew how time flows

and before all that time flowed you.

Back when all you knew was feeling.

Before you had knowledge, before you wanted to have more knowledge, before you needed to prove things.

Before you knew that you know nothing.

A ray of light projects itself through the grey day’s smokey cloud cover.

It reenlivens your skin tone.

You thaw.

And, I wonder: where were you the very first time

sunlight kissed you and

began stripping away

your skin’s virginity.

In private, I will observe your bare form.

Looking for tell tale signs distributed and

laying across every inch of you.

I will trace my fingers along and press my lips to each revelation

of how you became what you are.

A ghost ship at full clip

Fighting-as-discipline haunts me with every new face I meet. (Invariably they are black belts, INK’D athletes, ex MMA fighters, etc.)

Cannily uncanny. It may be inspiring my clip this morning. I certainly find the trend personally inspiring. The same way the numbers 93, 13, 11, and 777 hook my attention. Do I see them at every turn because they occur in a disproportionate amount or do my expectations simply enliven significance?

My feet carry my brain to work, propelled as though by the will of something outside of my conscious thought.

I walk too fast. I don’t know why. Mind still foggy from tying one on with the family last night.

Damn. I can barely keep up with my own pace.: I think, walking.

Click, click.

Click, click.

Quick.

Oh well, the energy required to change my momentum seems more consuming than just continuing to walk along, too fast.

It is a grey sky morning.

Have I actually woken up?

°

The sun finally arrives and beats the cloud cover into smashed splinters. It makes the day seem real. I feel my heart finally kick start, keeping rhythm with the coffee coursing through my system.

Howllelujah.: says the newly given up ghost,

in a whisper of surrender to this new day.

Still/s

And,

still,

I howl.

What is this extraneous energy I feel coursing inside me?

Whose is it?

I need some wing-wo/man to deal with the secrets

people impart to the queen of magnets.

You said: she get it from her momma?

I said: eff right off.

{Not you, doll.

You look fine.

I love your snarl.

You are fine;

yet, I, still, worry you run cold.

I don’t get cold.}

I don’t exist in orgiastic ecstasy.

I exist in an ecstasy of sincerity that happens to be orgiastic.

And, yes, it seems like an eternity.

{An eternity for which I am already too late.}

Physicsical Moaning

I smile: I am pleased you like the work, but not particularly interested in why.

You liked how it felt.

Instead, tell me about the last dream you had while sleeping?

Did you like how it made you feel?

I dreamt a record store called All ‘N Analog. It was no analogue.

And,

What if it turned out that Paul Revere was just a Boy who cried Wolf?

Let’s incorporate.

A stem [becomes]

steAm.
Repetition of action is

not repeating oneself;

though, care must be taken, of course, so you

don’t repeat yourself;

but, sometimes I love it when

you repeat yourself

(or ask me questions, the answers to which you believe you already know.)

Self-awareness of ignorance can nearly

overcome it.
Just don’t over-commit.

You will, still, scratch that itching nose with a finger, whether you are aware you do so,

or not.

You skate on a bead of water produced from the ice you melted as the blade of your skate skirted over it.

You have not cut the ice.

Boiling point is dependent upon the local atmospheric pressure, sweet thing.

Are you at an elevation of simple sea level?

The triple point of water.

A bathtub producing water, ice, and steAm from its faucet head.

All states

existing simultaneously; and, at the same time,

the ultraviolet exposure at my atmospheric level, fries, while I watched the sun rise

from my spectacular, secularly sacred space.

Witness UK – Scars

No rights: homage to a song that re-entered my mind a week ago.

I heard it on a College Musical Journal monthly compilation compact disc when I was about 16.

It took me a solid seven days of racking my brain for lyrics.

They finally appeared this morning, over coffee, to my mind’s eye, enabling me to locate this song.

Finally.

A Watery Whale Wail

Have you ever stared, for a long time, at a large body of water?

More than an hour, or

until you can’t remember if the water is actually the sky and perhaps it is you that has been submerged in water the whole time?

Like maybe the horizon is a surfacing point where you and I breathe like whales?

Spouting our exhalations and thrilling the star ships above our surfaces.

It feels like when you sit in a room alone and repeat your own name aloud, for a minimum of three minutes.

Incepting yourself as you dialate time through your subjectI’ve experience.

Like purposefully esoteric, alternative spellings.