Just before work. Back of a paper bag.

So go to bed and set those dreams on fire. To wake up every minute you cross every mile and mourn the coast to coast cost of caving in and telling a truth so bold. Go to bed and wake to the cracks the sun soaks through and wakes your bones to find you in a new day a new way to tell yourself it’s all anew. It’s all for you. From up above your sun glasses your glass gaze glazes me like a painted portrait of a pitch perfect happiness. To lean towards the sun to kiss the radiant fire just barely touching the lips of the sun. You know this moment. The big bang when your life was brought forth into existence.

Advertisements

To weed and to harvest

New job in MA farming, new lease on life. Wrote this poem on a paper bag after looking at old photos from Arizona. Also a picture from the beach by the farm, horseneck. I go swimming as often as possible. Once my computer is fixed I’ll do a more extensive post about the new farm, the move and the new ‘life’. Until then it’s just me posting short little items from my iPhone. Poem follows:

To be, a fear factory.

It’s a fear factory out here
I’m manufacturing fractures in personality parallels and drawing lines between lives.
The factory pumps out black smoke to cloud good judgment and thin out my safety net atmosphere.
The fear the facts when I react to words spoken out of born again mouths.
Dike dike dike.
I hold hands to hold back the fists that clench my words so strong and reach far to weed and harvest. Weed out the thoughts and harvest the heart that beats itself till bruising becomes purples and reds. Beets I sell two dollars a pound I picked with my own hand.
Daylight runs the cost of the fat I bought to burn before I buy the farm. Lay down the gold locks and breathe out the manufactured black smoke. Just to be empty. one more time.

20120626-213035.jpg

SNEAK PEAK

I did one final project photo shoot with Erik before I leave on monday. With all this wonderful Mexican culture in Arizona I wanted to pay my own tribute in my own way. This is just a photo I snapped with my Iphone, the real photos to come soon!

Image

Count to ten. Hold your breathe. Seven days away.

So Erik and I went on a hot air balloon ride i bought him for his birthday last month. The drive was two hours away from Chino Valley and we had to arrive at 4:45am. That means we were up and driving at 2:25, and have currently have been up for way too many hours. Its taken me four cups of coffee, a red bull, and a large tea so far to stay up this long. My body is not happy. Anyway, the balloon ride was very strange, not at all what i had thought it would feel like. We floated along at around 5-7 mph, and it felt like we were gliding along with the wind. Afterwards, i had a doctors appointment but it was several hours later, and not wanting to waste gas, we wasted our time instead. What grew out of wasting time was a poem that we wrote together sleep deprived and sitting outside a cafe. Here is the poem, Italics for what I wrote, regular type for what Erik wrote. 

A Finch forced fibers, chewn & spewn into my ear last night

nodding, finally finished, we whispered a tall tale into my throat

via intoxicating insinuations only the sea air could have told him.

But he stays rooted and speaks with the tumbleweeds daily at sunset

to ask of sharp parts and being stuck to this fence i’m on.

It divides the sea and the desert sand that hold together this fence like book glue.

Holding all the pages that we ponder together.

II. I love the way seaside  cities speak to me

its all situational here, now, sanding down

the secrets 

coffin nails cast over the richest soil which we eat from.

The dirts filled with worms that work such soil to toil and turn in.

I squeeze through my hands what grows and juice and worms drip through fingers.

All this dirt and secrets the wind carries along to touch the ears and nose.

Cold trade winds

early morning sunrise

the second cup of coffee

its all beyond reach so we toil in the dark longer

hands dry and dirty.

III. The Georgia pit stop pie eater licked her black plastic spork

and looked longingly at the empty booth surrounding her.

IIII. Erik likes to day dream about women licking pie plates and sporks

its all sex and mushrooms anyway

but i’ve got the skinny on him and hold his hand 

to inspect the pieces that Howard left

stuck inside the carpenter cracks in his skin.

He knows how to be sharp

how to cut

how to sand

but eyes stare past woodwork looking longingly over his shoulder back east.

To: Mornings in paris. 

After glows bayside 

murder mart alkeys

rainy day cart pushing

vegan chicken salad

dock side walks

vegan hot dogs

jazz clubs we never entered

and leaving just after ingesting myco-tea.

After the great tea debacle the mycelium 

grew under your skin till I cut you with this tin truth and you sprouted fungus.

It was only minutes however grew like the fires that spread over these dry hills

You crossed your arms and faced towards the west

to let the sun salute you

for your efforts not to bleed out to portland and die on the docks.

Paper cranes flew to your hands and delivered my goodbye

in the form of a handwritten note from the moon sun.

It read boy

hold your breathe and count to ten

and let the dirt and the roots break from the plane as it ascends. 

X.

Its Magic, rather magick that got me this far

im attempting to grow my mycelial wall longer 

than it’s thickness to plant my life.

Longetude

along the surface of the planet

but its getting lonely & reverting back to birth is bending my latitude 

sprawld  ass over head.

I hope hiding doesn’t hinder my hill to hill call

to whats still out there to enjoy.

____________________________________________________________________

As Erik and I part ways and I move back to MA for a job offer in one week, we share memories and hopes for each other over coffee. Who knows where life takes you, all one person can do is float along with the wind and let mother nature take you where you are supposed to go. 

ImageImageImage