Is it not the way, that the night I wish to sleep early is the night that there are a thousand thoughts.
You have posted. I tab the mark, so tomorrow night there will be a bit of joy. Six tabs open.
What happens to those dreams that burrow into our minds and drip into the stars? Tonight I still taste you from last night, but who were you for it was a dream that I discovered your soft skin. We sat at a bar waiting for something to happen when we happened and I realized the crowd – I realized our passion – I realized I was in a dream. I continued dreaming but lost you in the fire.
Passion is something that becomes misery if one burns their own candle too brightly.
No one ever accused me of being too happy.
Tomorrow I shall quit pretending.
It is a slow walk down to the graveyard when you do not know why you have been summoned to locate the hole.
Rains fell today here. Tears fell even harder there.
She opened her mouth wide until the pain poured forth destroying everything. They changed the course of flow over thirty years ago but it doesn’t matter for she must have finally taken her last abuse.
How much abuse can a tree stand before it splits open?
Mazzy Star sings about something and her voice reminds me of a jewel that went dull under the starlight.
He called himself a punk kid who ran with the artist crowd never knowing he told the Talking Head to stop reading sad poetry aloud at the local cafe. Today he shakes his head saying, it was David.
You never know who you are talking to until you are grown-up.
I grew up way too fast – at 14, I was 40. Does that mean now I am almost 70?
Emily Dickinson wrote of possibilities. I wrote tonight on possibilities.
Art is not dead. Poetry is dead, maybe. Nietzche was not God, but I think he died anyway.
If you have read this far and are scratching your head just know that this is not what I meant to write but there are too many people reading this for me to write what really needs to be said tonight. Alice Coltrane sang the blues today.
Listen to the rain – no one listens to her until she cries and the guitar plays flat against that slidebar that makes a warble.
There are not enough grovelers in this world.
Shame on your for wanting more.
This is not the land of the rich and plenty.
I have plenty of american dreams.
Taxes or death shall keep me from any.
Dig my grave with your silver spoon.
How about them apples , Mr. Washington?
Guess we learn something after all – it is a road to freedom but how that freedom is defined depends on the eyes seeing.
Thine eyes have seen the forest from the trees and she sways.
Sweet dreams, dear one, I shall tuck you under this wing of silver light and pray you awake on the other side of morning safe.
See you inside this place we call space.