i have to say. all i think about is the rain. the way the paint chips on the sidewalk. the way the sidewalks walk through my tilting little brainhead. the way my brain is centered straight ahead to see the future the past the present the gently unfolding curls of curling opalsence that meet me halfway down the road, on the street, at the corner of my feet where they meet the ground. where the ground grounds me to the sizeable chunk of earth i have laid my body on. i have chosen this life and the choice is to choose and the rip tide that may steal me away will keep me safely buried in the swing of the sea, in the ruble of the trees, in the timeless soul of certain cerebral swimmings.

so here’s the update. the honest truth is i see. i see what cannot be seen. i feel the form of the formless around my tightly knit skin and the burning bellows of my blissful belly. of my whistling sweet vinegar soul. i taste with my tongue, my mouth, my body, my soul, my endless rage of tortured divinities. all lost windows into the fullness of soul.

it’s in my taste, it’s in the devolution of soul, the revolution of mind, the catacylsmic seismic churning at the foot of my stairs leading up to the long and treachorus attic that sits on top of my skull. it’s wind wind cutting into your skin. it’s the salvageable sweet sensation of being alive. of being arriving. of a being arriving in its skin from the stars, from the mutating, rotating star spangled banner of our highwaving highway society. our culture of cracked skin and crinkling moral bones, fibrous mineral hearts dissolving at every repugnant new reality show. every whiff of whistling pollution that comes piling in from the onslaught of diluted, distorted air. it’s in the air, it’s in your hair, it’s in the bundled up bridges of broken connective tissues.

it’s fire and rain and the suburban terrain of torturous entrapments. its our own selfish breed of bubbling, bumbling, billowing newness. the ascent from newness of freshness to folding, molding collective collage of a dissolving culture.

and here i am. and there i am. i am words i am melodies i am soft shrill calls of morning birds. trills of thrilling halls of hills and the future gently careening towards me like a bright and blissful new light. like the likeness of my loveheart dragging me through the streets, up and down and up and down the melody of yes. of yes. of yes.

to tomorrow. the great Yes awakening in the night.  

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