Day's Part to Week's Inspiration

It is getting up in the late afternoon calling it morning after being up until 5:30am.  It is sitting back wrapped in brown chocolate, because that was the color that felt good, when you looked in the closet.  The recognition of grey days that turned a week of "grabbing the bull by the horns" into ineptness on your “off days”.  A week that was filled with possibilities of deepening your pockets; the promise never materialized, however you find solace in the fact you tried, and things are in motion. 

When the call of inspiration hits, the force faces your nose and all you inhale is, stop whatever you’re doing, and get that inspiration filled.  The day is two teens wrapped up, intertwined between open legs, on pink couches skipping school on a Thursday.  It is the decision to say to hell with whatever the teachers are putting out, today we put out for each other, because we are girls, and we like the way we curve—feel it!

The day is the only a part, and each part is added up equaling a whole, it is the whole experience is what we enjoy, what we remember.  The day can be sitting with puffers outside of your favorite coffee shop sipping a spicy chai, as they ramble on about cartoons with bed-head, conversing about drawing each other’s face.  It is the artist in you, who finally has put your HNIC persona in it’s pocket and is able to enjoy breathing.  Part, whole, whole part; parting to merge, adding to divide to finally come to a day, 24 hours make up such.

It is warm lights in a, rainbow spray-painted room with guitars on a wall facing you. 

There is the inviting essence of down-south hospitality found in green mountains where recreational plants have finally been de-criminalized.  There are people here, all are welcomed; please leave your judgments at the door.  And well…if not, please be prepared to discuss them in a most human fashion. 

The weather may still be cloudy in May, as Mother Nature is late with her showers, but there is life nonetheless.  The sounds of the day are like a thumping upright bass-line, guiding the swooshing of traffic just outside.  Fresh scents of tomatoes marinating in wok-like skillets open the olfactory senses.  

What does this part feel like?  Where will this day take us?  The experience is here, its happening now. 

The great thing is, we don’t even have to own it, we just have to let, it, be!  

If That Makes Sense (poem)

Communicate—

tell the world

how wild your fantasies get

on a Tuesday, after Bible study,

when you studied your partner’s breast

in that low cut V-neck sweater.

They were talkin’ Soloman,

but all you could think was Mary of Magdalene

because that bitch was the biggest whore in the Bible,

and those breast made even Peter contemplate,

my God, how glorious and great thou art!

Relate—

Human desire is the

cure to boredom, like

hanging out till 2, smokin’ and enjoyin’

not wanting to go home,

asking strangers to go to

the breakfast king, with no other intentions

other than, avoiding home.

Because even if you’ve reached that goal

of becoming roommate-less,

sometime you just want to be

out of your own skin in the company of

others, free in your essence in the

presence of someone you just met.

To be young and free,

or

old and unattached,

speaking on latch-key kids of the 80’s,

world wide wonder filled cities;

we are conductors connected to energies

silently filling the void with our expression

of what right, ought to be

Because sometimes

the point is to be pointless,

and we make it a point to be random…

if that fits in the box of the

theory of chaos

Be cautious in your dreams of

being discovered, because you are already

here.  

Thin Sheets Throbbing

Grey, green outside window blind;

separated into rectangles, tangled in emotion,

when will enough be enough?

Buildings be brown; matching mood, matching

skin, how to begin again as a

mother/father-less child?

Music is nice, what I’d do without it?

Probably go out and split a wig,

be entranced by triggers without tiggers,

is that like doctors without

borders?

Computers are useful, but 

the internet is the devil.

Typewriters were an author's best friend,

finding ways to relieve the pounding

of partial thoughts...

Thin sheet of rain falling from sky

like used linen is being dangled

by god—

if you believe in that kind of thing

Jagged, not Jagger, thick like Jagermeister

Pandora speaks in Spanish, as the

numbing in my left bicep, aches on.

If your balls hang low and grow

past 40—

does this mean you’re in risk

of a heart attack?

Forward mobility, mobile phones

converted to cell phone, jail cells,

they have captured our voice.

We have captured them with

blood on their hands—

camera, cell, picture, framed…

none of us are free.

Green grey outside,

with thin sheets of rain

like old linen

being hung down by god—

if you believe in those things