April 20, 2016

my morning writing jacket-ed ...........................................................#NaPoWriMo2016

(a Hansel and Gretel syndrom-ic musical theater poem)

we hid out at an off main street cafe until the courier phoned us 
with coordinates to an abandoned hut it was betel nut quid she 
slid five palm wraps into our possession, we quickly stole away 
into the night laughing with the smiles of mystery and 
curtained eons being lifted painting-ly onto our faces 

every thing seemed possible the early tuft village-d grasses 
pre-soaked with wanting morning's dew and flitting birds wing
tucked eager to taste the insect bramble rising 
from the warming loam/skin and knowing crows 
will fly overhead into the top reaches 
of the maple blossom-ed trees 
to caw the light warming 
their silk black feathers

when exploring areas inside you that you've been blind to, there 
is a desire to see through it with just one leap into where faith 
grows churches but we knew better and brought with us knees 
and pads and little parachutes because repeating 
this ritual made us more human than formless energy 

how did we race about divergent paths to become the rasp of 
wrath and impatience...aliens you said, it is the 
intelligence of weaving the jumps through hoops of fire that 
gave us all the courage, hearts and brains we needed to become 
the ghosts that bleed and seed and soon our hearts were racing 
and the little voices in our heads sped long fast into past 
present and futures told...you ran wildly away into the dark, I 
followed, watching you pluck stars from a night sky as I listened 
to you exclaim..."I'm pinching the tombstones...I'm pinching 
the tombstones..."

we awoke somewhere, we were in the middle of nothing, what 
was this place...everything was cloaked in milky gauze grey, was 
this something constructed from memory or something else 
entirely but it didn't matter for we were hungry and had been 
apparently for days, for we set out on a Wednesday and 
according to our phones it was now Tuesday with the effects of 
the psycho-active(s) completely wore off...

we stumbled back into town wearing the forest in scent and 
deed, my clothes and skin, torn and frayed, were covered in pine 
sap...you were laughing said I pissed myself on Sunday night 
after falling asleep and I was too malodorous to bed next to so 
you took a bleeding pine branch and rubbed it vigorously over 
me to clean the air so to speak and besides you say as we go 
back to the cafe with a need now for water worn in our 
eyes...that I muffled this little scream in my sleep 
repeatedly..."satyr-ical satyr-ical the world and its satyr-ical sense 
has gone missing from itself... I must have looked at you 
with astonishment because you then asked, 
"care to drink in more of where this poem rests?", 
nodding-ly I say "yes"...


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