Into the forest I go. Green trees and thick brush, swarms of mosquitos do not dare touch me because this is my dream and I make the rules. Two taps on the back of the hand, back of the wrist, as I gaze at the full moon in the day time. Still here, still in this schtick, the experimental glass orb, Simpsons Movie. Same day sameness, alterating mind/body experience. Spectacular sundance kill, sawed-off shotgun with the ammunition being this word salad I spew off to you now. Too much self-awareness, too much reflextivity. Those who live in glass houses should throw no stones. Shattered preconceptions. Stench of the rot under the underbrush. The steady stream flowing downwards and that trickling sound, constant. Like a hum to the mantra. Like am ‘om’, to the mantra. Hiking stick and sneakers and merchandising mayhem. New Hampshire outdoors store, just outside the mountains. Mystified mistakes, lost at the crossroads, indecisive at the crossroads. A true disconnect needs to happen. You’ll know when it hits. You’ll know when it hits you. Modern marble mumbling madness. Line-dance conga line, high school prom. We were just kids then and didn’t know our privilege to be there in that moment, drinking sprite and Shirley Temples with extra cherries, to be picky with the dinner on our plates, and with plans for jello shots and alcohol later in the evening. Crying emotional about it. Just at a place of a mental break. I used to love smoking weed with you and finding peace walking laps around your street feeling like we were in a mystical storybook. The way the light of the lampposts hit the pines made me feel like I was in Midsummer’s Night Dream.

Author: Roe

she/her. Songwriter & Trek Punk Soul™.

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