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
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
It read boy
hold your breathe and count to ten
and let the dirt and the roots break from the plane as it ascends.
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.
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.