Keeping in Boulder vast noose

Hairpin curve, your small patch of gray, devilishly deep eyes brightly focused on an integration between worlds of steep hills, forest unrelenting rain blackened salmon wash gravel forceps pulled you through into sunshine, you move your hips when you walk like a Boulder shaman from 1973 tempting the likes of Weather Underground leftover bomb making handymen across the street from Tulagi's, just a block up the hill and around this corner where she walked with me and took me to her room and showed my her cat while we flew in an acid haze through unfettered conversations and explored new ways to position ourselves with each other.

Radicals all around the town and drugs were provided by the god within my fist, my hammering patched jean flannel punchcard germinated from drives to Albuquerque for better deals, over the winter pass, over the yarns and headlights pointing to the sky.