that Summer when we knew tidal purity would only be ...................... a whispered myth if we had planned on holding it in our hands

a bubble mad vignette

( anti hero hidden face comic book bleeding in misty lace rising from a bowed head, a wanderer a-sitting down, alley bound, cobble stoned, honing destiny, drinking from a goat skin )

so we never understood tenacious
until we knew the clutch of the vines
we only realized their hardscrabble desire to be as we were, alive 
when Spring came along and they bled back into the green folds of May

wobble woozy what nots and the spots we take nostaligia to
getting inside the me inside the you, we spent the day outside
the reach of the Sun, going where it hides, riding calendar
shadows climbing walls, we often saw all the things we needed to
but only in some sort of disorder that made us prejudiced against
our inner sense of what was right, some of us chalked this up
to the onslaught of information streams, tickers and tvs everywhere
screen faced device platform seas of planted clicks and little frequencies
changing tides, teeming squeezes, teeming wheezing,
breezing in a flow of what words do spoken alone

our bellies full of arms, can we fall, can we fly, stones for eyes
pockets full of old maps we junked from previous times
we surrendered to the variants of what truth was then
when we observed ourselves
poisoned filled cats that indeed have nine lives
every when, when we decided that
we would be there
for each other
no matter what perception
those doors we kept
a knocking on
would give us

EJR ©