5 prose from jan. 7 2021
Just to Understand
Just to understand that this is part of it. Thats all i ask. I am as i am before you in the please of perfecting a person. Who is this who sees what once was and asks now; where i’ve been? Who else could letter this eye to this woven word structure of any and all and another not to worry about dying. You can think about time. To which each and all every one of me is here for your greater pleasure. That is the wholistic health of a person else the part were any less than whole could composite the entirety by principle of no principle, but love in the moment understood as manifest God speaking in through a person. Being with a person. Being a person. Natural. All and adventurous as we are, lords of our loss, lapping laughter locked in the spell of coming. To be is much less appropriate than being. Who will you be is not what i ask, who are you here? Now at this instant of time and spacial relation understand i am once there evermore everywhere lost. Found.
Just being as is seeing the thing form formless. Poetic is the time? Test. Latter to the lighthouse window, she got shot. She was not peaceful. Thats out of context. Put it in pretext. Perfect the inscrutable bliss. Its peace. Its sex with God. Got it.
They bled the color. They stayed the blank. Stamped the seal and set the ocean free. Breathed this one on me! AH! Me oh my this language of the got it.
Should and ought were petty privilege and all the mote, enjoy your light. The fields of cotton i ran shirtless in and she took a photo and wrote about it. And breakfast was quite alright, tasty even apart the facemask. Tastes like lies. Tastes like like, overused, get over it, get it going. “Am i really here for you, or just another projection of yourself?” No, get it back the heads alright all about at least full the force of life includes sorrows, includes madness, includes this, faces the fun, throws spun filigree of past poets prescription to a persisting feeling threading even now the return to positive play. Thought tap to the ink set per-posed word with Orwell about a book about now, sound noun popping structure and all the seriousness of this! All the exclaiming wonder of America’s setting; shes and as an image is late to conjure the future look back: hello! From the mirror behind.
Oh the contour on skin. Your skin. Heating wet warm glow my camera silks with print, talcum consistency contraposition of an explanation i cannot alter apart mere fooling around. The color wheel, spun it. Jumped the moon, sun danced boats, no; our boat on the clouds. Bopped back and forth (yellow, blue bliss, and it was pinkish) and it was a trigger of not to be in she. She’s got a new face, naked and she’s all in bed bespeaking happy, happy, luster of the window gleam, the portrait lit body on my body.
She got to growing up. Left summer for winter and woke in autumn all springing about some lost feeling. You missed out.
But don’t miss your present now. You’ve got it all before you baby. Endless art expenditure. All the marriages with nearly. Who could verb? You make verbs nouns.
Now what do i do?
As is is the nation not understanding themselves when the house divided is built of only childhood Lincoln logs. The scrap is necessary for the rebuild. Breaks us down yes, and we are altering altar no more to the perfection of a place. This holy is grounding. Get us going again God of the all and every coming together in all we who be.
A prayer of natural necessity, the nation requires a sleepwalk sound trope to topple the ideals of perplexed predilections of proper acumen when the mint in the mouth shut is quite fine if you’d do the time to get to know yourself and see all you put on others is how you really are yourself. Geez, Jesus died like this.
She’s, she’s all in bed, not in her head about this. It’s something the reader helps to create, insofar as the pen is transmutable to the hour at which the heat of light complexes the fractal simple setting on which red suns rose. They guarded the horizon line, i never saw them. I was through it all, through and through true to the conscious spell, oops the spill.
But like the nectar of her kitchen and these teas, the hordes of flowers is all that could stop me. I come, sit a while, say hello for the tree, hear a twig snap on my way out, a laugh, dropped the smoke, set it behind my ear, people in the elevator, butterflies flying about, runway fashionista is a easy as be can another translation. Another nation of my head joins peace and ally against any injustice for which the people are well represented, counted for in their peace. They are Wiesel at the offer to another. Peace is our gift. Nature our show, get it to go. Stay everywhere.
You Must Change Your Life
You must change your life. Read the feeing called up through the heat. Blowing steam, sipping coffee beans and oat milk into my mouth. What is a mouth to a saint? Is as open as love reveals, closed as peace persists. When action must be taken, take it. When stillness must sit, sit, rest a while.
Perhaps in changing myself i’ve changed the life about me. How much does it cost to be just beautiful, naked and at the resource of truth?
All Eternity is in a Moment
All eternity is in a moment. Said me, said i saw it in the snailing to a stop second after the rain in morning. Time relapsed, passed Whitman, Blake, Oliver; all seven of them, new caterpillars, floating graces hung from the trees, its where poetry out to be, then in nature as we are; i remember walking, carefully perusing pages of in Emerson’s lines, about some other poet popping out their eyes, their mouths to who could stretch eternity from a second, still into a moment, eternity. I watched the snails slowly stop crawl, a faint trail of time behind, smelled the rain from wet cloud walk, they traverse the spinning earth in standing still; that’s all it was, being still for a second moment.
I Like to Pretend
Quite possibly it’ll interest the future. Dare i see and say: i like to pretend; it will. That i’ve never been here before. Well, yes, yes why not. I like your outfit. I’m on holiday, have a good night, made to be holy day, so anyway; all the glow of this new suns up in the laurel verdant of this cities trees. The pleas of the birds belongs to music, continuity with sound. Everything is music: i like to pretend. I’m famous for visiting coffee shops to stare out the window a long while. I trade smiles with a wiser woman than i, i’m an attraction is all, real fruit of a peace transcending. I like to pretend i know what reality is.
note to Self:
Time is an asset.