lover of the black rose; unfettered and alive; chief archivist of the western slopes; another of Yemaya's babes in the world; Joachim's distant star; boring stories of - glory daze
Sunday, June 24, 2012
I got lost in your Name tumbling down the hillside rolling past your holy rosy cross inundations of blessed spirit greening the soul apriling the quivering hesitations anviling the burgeoning seal as if agency were a blessing in all our nooks all our harvests all our emancipations dissipations triangulations into the blessed might into the blessed night into the blessed sanctifications of our rollercoastering rampant flight.
(Facebook kept advertising a Norah Jones poem contest in my margins; every time I clicked, I was sent into cyber-oblivion. No Norah dinner for two for me, I guess; but, I wrote the poem anyway.)
Slapdash paddle ma'am sitar-kissing punjab of the western slopes metroplex baby in her swishy nines you couldn't ask for more digitalis has a way with the wives of men the dayglo apothecaries rhyme their ways to heaven absenting themselves from the cooing sisterwaves, algebra too can boogie in the shines, if your danger has a vegematic fluff, dreamy dreams accentuating anything in the way of plenty, she were a cooing cooer weren't she, said all the middle schoolers, she were the biggest of your minstrel dreams, when the down was out, left field streamers streaming the Madisons, the Carries, the simplest of rainbow girls on runabout: blessed we are she's a brokenhearted little geisha girl, all six-guns ablazin' - she's your roomer, boy - she'll do your dreams in paisley, nestle up on that bus to nowhere, you can leave your middleschool middleearth drearies all behind, from here on out it's all torchlight daddy, touchdown assassins of the unfurled heart, ninth potion of the seminal stream.