Here's something you might be interested in.
Snails move slow on a regular Friday, "Regula",
A friend of mine, whom defies the very meaning of the word.
I think its his life work to prove that word wrong
breaking patterns and spaces between meanings
Like him, this day is as regular as perpetual motion
and things in flux
Yet some call it normal, regular, same, Friday
just the day after Thursday, day before Saturday, two days before death
a week after birth
a day
another one of its kind
like and unlike the others
in the sense that no day is the same
and the very moment you read this,
is a accumulation of every moment before
a big picture
a life mural
a paradigm time line out of time and quite aligned with
with
with
what?
most will never know, never guess, never assume
"cant"
"wont"
"unable"
all words we set before us like a table
filled and made but no one eats at it
however the stand points and current state of present timing
space time worm holes and alien motor cars
all whirl about my childish head
while my body calls, cry's out to be grounded below the earth
into the sand
rooted
in the sacred grounds my forefathers sleept on
sleep in
toiled
produced fruit on
my childish head wants sleep, food, sex.
my soul wants rest, mana, love.
my body craves the empty expansive canyons and the high flying hawks.
my inbox wants your snails.
redoubled dedication for a day leaves me corresponding to myself.
where is the Gypsy Queen?
giving symposiums on love and Informing Americas?
Is she planting bombs of truth in the house of the poor?
Can I help her?
Each path taken is windy or straight.
each day regular and irregular.
each statement perceptual precipatation rained down in html.
noted and un-noted.
my love is for her.
for you.
the world.
So,
when I go outside,
I will not come back in.
don't bother asking.
Snails move slow on a regular Friday, "Regula",
A friend of mine, whom defies the very meaning of the word.
I think its his life work to prove that word wrong
breaking patterns and spaces between meanings
Like him, this day is as regular as perpetual motion
and things in flux
Yet some call it normal, regular, same, Friday
just the day after Thursday, day before Saturday, two days before death
a week after birth
a day
another one of its kind
like and unlike the others
in the sense that no day is the same
and the very moment you read this,
is a accumulation of every moment before
a big picture
a life mural
a paradigm time line out of time and quite aligned with
with
with
what?
most will never know, never guess, never assume
"cant"
"wont"
"unable"
all words we set before us like a table
filled and made but no one eats at it
however the stand points and current state of present timing
space time worm holes and alien motor cars
all whirl about my childish head
while my body calls, cry's out to be grounded below the earth
into the sand
rooted
in the sacred grounds my forefathers sleept on
sleep in
toiled
produced fruit on
my childish head wants sleep, food, sex.
my soul wants rest, mana, love.
my body craves the empty expansive canyons and the high flying hawks.
my inbox wants your snails.
redoubled dedication for a day leaves me corresponding to myself.
where is the Gypsy Queen?
giving symposiums on love and Informing Americas?
Is she planting bombs of truth in the house of the poor?
Can I help her?
Each path taken is windy or straight.
each day regular and irregular.
each statement perceptual precipatation rained down in html.
noted and un-noted.
my love is for her.
for you.
the world.
So,
when I go outside,
I will not come back in.
don't bother asking.