Saturday, July 12, 2014
a salute to the chronicles of all saints: glancing around the room..ariel...there are gardening boots in the corner, photos and papers on the piano bench, lace capped flowers in my mind with dark stems---a bright fireplace with circular shadows and white drapes with the moon shining through, a gallery of a forest out the looking glass we call windows in full bloom. geraniums, dusty leaf flowers from a forgotten age screaming to tell their stories....if i get it together soon the stories they talk about could be mine, all mine. I just don't care for things the way they care about them. i take my time. it's almost as if the price is too high - america doesn't need another lullaby. there is after all a difference between art, mind, propaganda. where are all the blank verses, elegiacs, ballads, limericks and sonnets? father of the nights. red hands. lower worlds. come now, its' time for all our breath to strike some nerves and make necks stretch out on their knees, get entangled. please. in another life i could of been you, too. i could of if i wanted to and you could have been me too... and, maybe baby, maybe baby, think about it you know what to say and what to do. yeah, we could'a just been just another meteorite that day...remember that day we landed here? the day we came to play. if i get it together soon the stories they talk about could be mine, all mine and maybe you will understand then too. i just don't care for things the way they seem to care about them in that big parlor room, so full in that fever of blue.