Who knows when desire germinates? It stealthy enters through all the pores to reach a receptive heart. Mutual feelings forge an electric connection, uniting both to respond in wordless agreement. Home is not without, but rediscovering the evergreen moment; deliciously resting, turned on together in the heady fragrance of a partaken now. Feeling as if no Christmases, Thanksgivings, or Halloweens existed before theirs - with everything filtered through the prismatic lens of their unfolding bliss... Playing, dancing, teasing, and necking mistletoe overhead then, lying side by side beneath the lit tree - breathless from the innocent laughter of lovemaking.
Monthly Archives: November 2021
On the cusp of the 60s and 70s, 68 went down as the year of cultural revolution. Psychedelic shirts with LSD phosphorescent eyes. I know. Saw the living colors myself Walls inhaled and exhaled scents of patchouli and cheap strawberry incense from India. Saw those grimacing faces above the long-haired crowd twisting hideous. I was the youth then. "Down with the establishment" was the chant. Government? What a downer. What a bummer. "drags" were for "squares." The institutional church reeked as did the communist cult not into being reduced to a number for a system of power claiming my own good more into getting naked rather than getting put in a straight jacket Politics proved to be only good for starting wars. I met Pisces Tom partying in Coyote Canyon near Joshua Tree. a genuine Haight-Ashbury hippy who went off the grid to live in a bamboo forest smack dab in the middle of the Mojave desert. Tom raised a hog painted eerie space mandalas and made LSD from soaking marigold seeds. When he was tripping thought he could pan gold from the desert sands of ancient seas. Some of Tom rubbed off on me. How different today dancing to the establishment's dirge while pretending not to be.
Masses hasten for the likely road, the sign reading, “--Your Own Way--” lettered black on blue leading direct into quicksand. Some notice the bridging crossroad, --a 180 from the sinkhole The highway less traveled over a descending dead-end --the highway once crested with thorns.
Emily often pondered what was beyond death & taught me with a bumbling fly. More than a century ago, Walt wrote Leaves still able to strip culture-blindness from today's eyes. Allen let it all dangle out, jazzing it up with his radical staccato beat. Carl's blast of "The People, Yes." imparts a feeling of significance. The "crooked hands" of Alfred's bird show the vigor to grab a word. The foaming creek of Kenneth's Har cites both academic with industrial. Wallace's "compass of that sea" --much like the one I'll use for me. Both parliaments and parties are mere baubles before these. The razor blade of the pen will crop them to their knees. Like Percy's "shattered visage," then in heaps of crumbled seas. 4.5
Partied like a rock star, and became a rolling stone wandering cacti roads mouth as dry as a salt bed Jose Cuervo at Lake Havesu catch a frisbee; hit the bong, but nowhere to go--is this freedom? sleeping on the Dodge's back seat, must stretch out the food stamps fill & run at the gas station looking for the next party give plasma for a nickel bag suck the frosted keg empty barf the Coors up secretly (under a friend's bedspread) full of insincere giggles mannequin dolls their paint peels I burn out - crash
Under weathered daisies allegedly buried, but mindfully present an old-timer - well past his prime, beneath a cold etched granite marker in the gut-wrenching hope, that she might willingly return to recall the pleasant times at his soil, as he oft did at hers his unanswered love, his perpetual embrace He would caress her with his stone hands, devoutly wishing for the white heat of her caring reciprocity Thither they dreamed, though of him, she never grasped, but only an altar of someone she once touched, of what might've been-- And the unknowing was the latent desire of both, but the two blundered a chance, though-- once upon a time? Ergo, there, he abode silently Fully unclothed, she tormented him at night with sunny flowers in her graying hair He would drink in her earthy vanilla skin as she reclined next to him, cuckolding
Why would anyone want to give up their freedom for a failed regime? What was the outcome? Brutal revolutions snuffed multiple millions. We take for granted the liberties our forebears secured with their blood. Judeo-Christian values are being replaced by repressiveness. The influencers will fake it til they make it, but lies remain lies.
A countdown timer is essential when pressure cooking dry black beans. After reaching full pressure, time twenty-four minutes until the buzzer & the legumes are now soft. Use twenty minutes & they're chewy raw; push it to thirty; you got mush. Cooking is a bounded & timed process to get it right. True also of all organics who are against a deadline.
When I joined the US armed forces I was a maverick looking for a way out of family and financial despair.-- I wasn't answering any sense of jingoistic duty. When I was a child, I LOATHED POLITICS, often heatedly discussed around the dinner table. Santa Claus felt more natural, still does. I am not sorry for this. "The Man" the "Establishment," is "square," --a drag. We tried to see ourselves as children of the flowering earth chemically cowboying space, and whatever dimension took us far away from the evening news of war, assassinations, and riots - all generated by the "military-industrial complex" we were supposed to pledge allegiance to. Long flowing rebellious hair adorned me listening to the musical offspring of the beat poets who eschewed the conventions of so-called "christianized" society. A rebel, I remain.