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Life with Music

Around the World in Nice, France

Month

November 2011

Highway Masters

tiny scorpion wings
airlift metal from the wound. Shards of
fragments, ideas that were.

How could you-
Fail to notice!
The. In_frantic
Flashes*life
(skipping)
Sipping tea Skeleton roses
9dipping)
Dangling fireworks laughed Underneath
(drinking6
Fermenting liquid steel..

Is what could have been
As real as it was?
Hours(**)(
Ours(?))+>==
==>R’s spent by bastard
Fingers, dust from thin
Winetips crushing silk
Spinework into
A dress
Mother smothers

Nearby, convenients fasterbate longingly.
Lost.
See those spindly bloodsuckers?
Fortified by miles and miles of spun web
Jealous spiders spun
While drunk fish chat fly fishing
Sick of it

stuck at home
in a rotting
sun
left on all night
to buzz
for all the animals sleeping
tucked away in homespun blankets

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Assumptions

Girl texting in the dark

waiting for a spark

nobody sits next to her,

adjacent seat’s for Teddy Bear

curled against the window

cursing her beauty.

What We Are

Lapping up the violent differences

between us, precious nectar,

we fight for every drop.

Pressed flesh simpers

Cells excited by new heat:

“What’s this? I thought we were the same”

but we aren’t, we are change, we are

the ecstasy of longing, the eternity of

desire dripping from soft thoughts

sewn to our lips.

Children (prose)

There’s something about¬†children¬†that brings about the best in everyone. When a child excitedly investigates the world around him/her, probing with questions and roaming fingers, we feel we owe them some answers. Perhaps it reminds us of when we too approached the world with a vigorous appreciation and curiosity.

And perhaps we feel guilty. Guilty that the world in which we live is not the one we want our children to discover. Sometimes we lie. Small, harmless, Easter Bunny / Santa Claus lies. This staves off our guilt while we enjoy a hallucinatory trip back into our own childhood innocence; just playing one last game of pretend. But we do so knowing that someday the fairy tale will be unraveled, pretending that day will never come. At least not today, tomorrow, or the next day.

This escapism soon turns into addiction. We ourselves buy into it. We lose the motivation to shape our world for our children in favor of the illusion our children are growing up in the world that they truly deserve. Our children watch us and emulate us. They repeat our smiles, our laughs, our tears, our arguments, our insults, and our views of the world.

So create the world our children deserve to explore. Treat your fellow human beings with an immutable respect for their original human innocence. Act how you wish your children and everyone else’s children to act. All too often the world we come to know is the world we perpetuate.

Spread seeds of love and respect, that they might germinate in the children of the world and produce the fruitful human relationships that make our brief stay on Earth a divinely inspiring experience.

What makes you tick?

The rhythm of nature. The unpredictable. Skinny dipping. Alternate dimensions from reeling head highs to so slow jazz solos, and back again. That new combination of ingredients that I never even thought of until Just Now. Realizing I was wrong, and becoming right (I hope it never ends). The moment when two hearts racing synch to the same pacing, warm life sensations, bodies tracing, minds erased. How the beat melts into the thick fabric of time-space.

we are earth angels

dirt ground floor feet rise through
bone muscle fat to shout
a whisper to
air mist waves look

up above, angels below
skyshroud clouds our gravity
drawn to Earth

Not a Haiku

Cold Breath swirls in spirit
mind opens when eyes close
were we there the whole time?

to_anyone (21) Meg Vermilion

Me
Earth student
Getting older
pied pupil pipes warning
for millions watching
heed this, proper propriety,
heed this prophecy properly:
fizzle whiz steam queen
harmonic locavore
word weird book crook
lavish love lived of
tree root form in concert soil
shared abundance vigorously
simultumultuouslessness
inexorable spirit rise
torn paper sky fall
night might know you
not may no word
that you may be
the day. you are
Ready?

Night Haiku

Night, my good friend has
ideas into dreams through
many days on end

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