one word ain't ross: supreme
virtual necessitycream of wheat
the dalliance dithers
the vast will wither
time will her creeping
do
corraling pleasure
anticipating treasure
playing the games
of red with blue
absenting the want
that need never
greeds
flesh will
touch the touching
sky will near
no fear
angels ascend
within
victimless crime
on second street
the second you know
the second you flow
the second you see
the rest of you
undertow
afterglow
sloppy joe
shadow show
status quo
apropos in your ever so quid pro quo
nevering
past the climes of tropical henrys
the i don't know
electric glow
vince van, go on, you go
desire to know in her
effervescent to and fro -
Labels: maybe flo
posted by murat11 at 12:01 PM
7 Comments:
Well, this is a nice one, and it does have a flow. I like the way it got all fed up and nourished with a breakfast of champions so it could dither and wither, corral and creep, treasure the pleasures, and touch the sky in a split second going higher and higher and spinning faster and faster in a tropically stormy glow of effervescence. Gotta dig that Cream of Wheat!!
Wrote this to "Everwanting" blaring through the headphones. No surprise there.
So it's belly is full of Cream of Wheat and its spirit is surging to the rhythms of "Everwanting," no wonder it hits the pinnacles and then jumps up further to dance on moonbeams.
Cream, Paul Butterfield Blues Band, Miles Davis, back when I was running an injection molding press at a plastic plant on nights, they would let us play the radio on nights when In Concert was on. Never forget the night Grand Funk Railroad came back to Detroit and played. Shop steward pulled a stool up next to my machine and listened with me. I was on a whole different music plane as I read this - was hearing Buddy Miles and Them Changes ...and, I lived in a trailer with three other poor young'ns :)
Grand Funk and In Concert, that'll take you back. Gotta love those old Fillmore posters. Ooo, and a trailer, too.
Have you ever read the poet Philip Levine? Came to San Antonio a few years back to Gemini Ink, the lit center where I was working. Crotchety geezer, awesome poet. From Detroit: has written some gorgeous poems about his own factory days. Books that stood out for me were What Work Is, The Simple Truth, and The Mercy. A book of essays, The Bread of Time. It's all good, though, and plenty online.
Something wonderfully poetic in the phrase running an injection molding press at a plastic plant on nights.
Merry Christmas, hermana.
Never read him but I will now. Plastic plant days, lot of time to think, 18 years old and thought I had all the answers, miss factory philosopher. "wish I knew now what I didn't know then". back to cooking - Merry Christmas to you, Tina, and Mr. Baby :)
Them's was the days, Ms Dee. "Plastic plant days" sounds like a groovy writing prompt, we'll see what comes of it.
Phunny philosophers: just engaged in a most engaging conversation with 11-year-old Mr. Baby, narrator for this afternoon's children's Christmas pageant, who intones, "You know, no one's ever really proven that Jesus existed." The journey, deliciously, is in full bloom.
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