Highway mate

Dash, dash comment semi colon highway mate, hairy hoary virtuosity,
This is a naked sword of maple, dipping into your dripping scabbard of syrup.

All along this watchtower new years glimpse, the ostrich vies to eat sand nymphs,
Varnished in their patches of shining hop hop hop, the beak is reaching for their apricot.

Only my horse can stand before these oceans of mechanistic trenching, a wheel in time,
Purchased when the reins of raininghorse bend in wind that is wrenching time from steel.

I long for this penetration, this obfuscation, this caterwauling march toward some river source,
Mane afloat in leap and twist and plunging deep into vagina, mate my being wooden horse.

Where the bed met the wall

They mention you frequently in the vastly under-rated journals placed along a fence near south Ashland during intrinsically shy community building exercises leveled at the omnipresent collapse of Lumerian lore and marketable abstinence. How long has it been since when and where collided sweetly into an embrace of now, a sharp gasp audible across the room where layers of your children's dreams have restlessly placed envelopes full of dime store candy in semicircular patterns designed to catch the brownies and elves who have evaded nooses and snares?

My hands were alone in their pockets, my hair was involved in conversation with my neck and the tattered sleeves that used to embrace my hands fell off into shadow where the bed met the wall, but all of this music only drove me further into a garden of wondering, of remembering whose feet fit into whose boots when the trailer wheeled its way down the small road to a helper's haven, I knew them all and they called out to me by name, blending voices with breeze and insect chatter, so voluntarily we dashed into each other's direction and became one being, an experiment in physics to prove - again - that reality is layers, spirals, tornados… it is not a line or a plane or a globe - or anything finite that you can reach out and touch.

Here is speed of consciousness, tuned strings vibration going all out and shoe laces poised to tie themselves in knots that trip some fantastic trigger often itchy, often neglected. Take aim, let the flowers fly from the barrel of joy, sing and howl with coyote as rain begins to fall on a late afternoon one and all.