Hand on the bible. Sworn in for life, even if it’s really only for a set period of time. There are changes that will ensue that are a roller coaster track being set for a lifetime. Where you thought your journey’s end is only just the beginning. Two-parter episode candy-stripe good time. Care for me, like I’ve cared for you. I’ve sworn it in vows and in bars and over graves and over cities bombed. Psychedelic g-force gravity; I can feel the skin start to melt where it meets the eyes and nose and mouth and ears in my face. Dream-like Salvador Dali. Misnomer surrealism. It’s just a switch-shift, a switch-flip. We are no longer dinosaurs though our cars drink the oil lifeblood from this earth and we fill up to the clang clang of the gas pump, pulling forward to get ours. I don’t want to be unapproachable, menacingly different. I don’t wanna rush around to fulfill trivialities. I swore to you, over the needle of a buzzing heart tattoo that I love you. Wide open hall where a Skyrim king sits undisturbed and unperturbed. This golden palace can only last so long, but a lifetime. And this king he swore his allegiance to his land and people, and those people swore to him. This thick bond that calls on its citizens to protect the land they love and live in.
Swimming laps at the pool, treading water as a dive my head down under the water and resurface again to breathe. Notwithstanding the capacity of my lungs, I could live down there below the surface for hours. Clear, clean, crystal blue waters. The muffled and muddied sounds of reverberant screams and chatter in this indoor environment. The pool is not heated, but cool and cold against my skin, waking me up from a not-too-long-ago slumber. My swimcap is on and wrapped tightly around my head like the rubber menace it is. I remember as a young girl, feeling immense frustration at trying to get my whole head of very thick, very large and long mane of hair inside this glorified head condom. Treading water whether in motion or in place, I watch as my cupped hands pull the water back and propel me forward. Freestyle, head side to side, one arm after the other, legs kicking or out swimming frog-leg style. I remember summer swimming lessons at the summer pool. My instructor was a nice, young woman with brown hair, brown eyes, and a one piece bathing suit that was likely red in solidarity with lifeguard colors. I liked her. We would practice with kickboards and holding our breath underwater, as well as opening our eyes underwater. Everything I know about swimming I primarily learned from her, allowing me to partake in field trips and birthday parties, social visits and beach trips.
There is a bud, burgeoning on blossom on the second bush to your right and straight on 'til morning. There has been a frost and the air is cold, the ground crunching with a thin sheen of ice as you step decisively forward. The sun will come out today and melt all this so that it will then make us forgetful and hopeful. And as the ice melts and turns to water, this bud will drink it all up, finding the warmest air pocket in which to blossom its head, and suddenly - POP; It has opened and is smiling, yawning toward the yellow orb in the sky. That orb we call Sun, that will painstakingly look toward with care in hopes of predicting future weather, as we look to astrological stars for hope and change and tips and clues and tricks to how to be, how to act, what to lean in toward within our own personal solar systems. Budding romance, budding friendships. Weed in little plastic baggies being crumbled into the teeth of awaiting grinders so that it becomes loose and dust-like. A tram-car to a different dimension for awhile. And I pray you please keep you hands, feet, and arms inside the vehicle at all times. Open window blowing breezes, birds singing Sunday song, it is easy to forget we are not alone.
Monotone ordinance, alien garbage. Monochromatic elegance in black and white tones like some old stills for a 1930s movie flop house. Raised skirts and long underwear bunched up in winter. The sun is brighter than a thousand stars. Elevated snack bar. Rocket launcher gone haywire. One pitch, no deviation in speaking. John Cage could not, or would not choose to analyze, nor Steve Reich for that matter. Muddled meaning, skipping pebbles in puddles while I tap my foot and shake my leg to uncertain, arrhythmic beats in my own brain and body. Jumping from here to infinity, disconnecting procrastination. "If I knew then what I knew now". Cradles that wobble out of open windows. Bath water lay still and dormant lays hatching to mosquito eggs to ravage and pillage out skins and bodies. Flatline speech. Dial tone. One neverending string of sameness. Scissors. Cut by the Fates. Don't you wanna know what it's like to disconnect? The temptation of everything all the time everywhere. Lay stiff and still as a board. Horizonal spatial reasoning as I shrink like a raisin from the embarrassment of all sorts of memories. To anyone receiving this message you can unsubscribe right now as I dribble on and on, never ending basketball game.
There's gonna be a deluge. With my ear pressed against the squawkbox in some newsroom bunker, some fire of bells and whistles rains down on my cochlea. Skating on thin ice, preamble before an avalanche, I hear that Snow White just bleaches her skin and the Fairy Godmother is nothing but a bullfrog on toadstool stunting disbelief and waving around her webbed feat along with that swell in her neck. Lazy eye day. Siegfried, cast me out, play me out. Magic wand filled with wishes and rabbits out of hats and little flags that pop out that read, "Bang!". American consciousness. But these sheep do not dream. In their ignorance they cannot make out the myth. And why teach them if it ends in violence every time? This self-identity, this healing from a wound we cannot stitch, that has been bleeding out since some 17th century conquering decision. Those men are all dead and gone and here we are still with the needle and thread, crying and calling a medic, on some battlefield of ideology and fear. Snowman in the smoker comes out talking like Leonard Cohen. It's some claymation nightmare spoof. It plays on every channel. All 1000 of them. Country living for some peace and quiet. Kayaks over boats and oil your arms. Life-jacket silhouetted sunrise.