I take a swift hit, the glass dab prodding white-less smoke in a fury of heat and evacuation; soon the blue cloud smoke drifted over my eyes. I felt a loosening in my neck; my head wasn’t so heavy. Shoulders waned and eyes drowsed, I drifted into a sleep like fit of a passion once surrendered, I wasn’t happy, or anxious, or confused. I wasn’t anything, really.
I was high as a kite and I was flying fine –
to this swift grass oil light up my fire
and confess that we’ve all had better times!
When was it last you kissed the bawdy admirer from the circus hounds?
The ones you noticed on your walk in?
The ones at the bar or the park or the job
who speak in whispers on the outskirts
of your real, fading, life.
Have you kissed this question as it should be handled?
Like a woman in sleep yearning for the hand,
the warmth,
the nestle of your crisp on her shoulders,
the darkest of the darkest me
in the nights spent waiting,
Wading on the gentle hello of fingers felt loosely
in the cold of the arms and the fisted
Who shake rebellious hands at the man
and all who no show
in the moral, questionable authority.
This reaping year,
This one of two thousand
And unluck, the same
dumb struck lucky fuck
who should have passed
When wading in the deep ponds of a neighborhood gathering,
The birthday that you don’t remember
but the reality of your memory
clogging the very ears of disbelief,
Imagining on it’s own that one time
You were pulled from a deep pond.
Go on into the dying of the light
let Dylan tell it how it is,
Let marquis, whoever that fuck is,
to be quiet.
Gentle wounds can be heard from the wise,
Be patient with your time
And let your eyes know the device.
All hail the significant query-
This dabbling affair with the minds mistress;
Let her take your hand and
let her run you through her fields;
The strawberries have never been sweeter.
Flannel, Not Plaid 