world wool shrunk 6/12/11

A little bit of warm water keeps the memories turning. They all slink into my head after a long song day. It gets crowded. No one wants this in their way, in their back fenced forest, when sleep is a simple sigh and a tickle of relaxing muscles away. Days are like books. Weeks are like volumes. Months and years, anthologies and libraries. So each moment, movement, memory from the minute before is a word sweating out of your lips. Whether it's breath or melody, we never cease the telling. Since we have reason sunk in our helpless heads, humans think out of instinct. We dissect, organize, and decide the value of the dust on our tables.

"I think that I will be alive,

purse-lipped and starving,

every day I am given, each

a treasure, until I cannot,

or will not, reach into my 

head and pull out a gift.

The reaching is the crisis."

After a long day of rain, the sun shrinks the earth down to a colorful dirtcake. On these days, one can walk the entire breadth of grass waves and wind caves in an afternoon. The earth will be painted differently this day, when the ground feels less like distance, and a whole lot more like a magazine. It's all the colors we choose. 

**

On days of whimsy, the world is dancing light and deserts of restless dragon backs. On these days, noses snort and wiggle and you catch people making grand gestures and it's all, in the faraway clouds of radio jeering and lines at the DMV, set to music. You feel a dancing rhythm in your ankles, and the chattering, corduroy fleets of vibrating delivery trucks massage your temples to a languid, after-meal stare. A mysterious smile warms through your lips at unexpected moments, leaves an earth-acknowledging air to your conversations, and lands you safely back in your chair to pay your check.

When angry, even the slowly listing, silent moonlight leaves chasms in the sky. Gentle, distant dripping from the faucet is a japanese drum played by german industrialists. Scratching with rusty farm equipment at the chalkboard gates to your eyedrums, the day stretches on like the sweating, stammering traitor on the rack. I WANTED A NAP!! Bunny love is met with hatred: nazi-youth with strangled, rag-doll puppies. Every pedestrian a mine victim, limping, useless and taking up space. Every driver a lunatic, geeking out and drooling, humping the steering wheel as they bury the gas and brake simultaneously. I would end myself for a popsicle and a room with a view.