blood cultures and cures itself through generations of tussle toned memory and some say tree, others say heap, to repeat and replicate and reduce and swill upon the marrow of each moment until dead. we are so simply, so utterly convoluted by the concepts of our modern features and the divine right of our so-sung pleasure pallet, that we forget the supple sweet meaning of who we are, or were, and want to be, but are, and that is that. for vengeance is bliss. and in that, war is industry. and if that, love is a game. and from that, a necessity, found only between two beings for the sole purpose to creature. create, er.
somewhere sits and breathes good breath the woman i once loved. a phone lights her face in some darkness and war is the last thing on her mind. her mind is on kissing him and/or writing poetry on typewriter n lovely south africa or luminous europa, the american girl caught by a worldly swirl, unfiltered furl, and accompanied by the right kind of people, to end the day cawing and into the night. she is happy now. she is rolling large blunts and preparing the blood clot for another decade abroad in beautiful contemplation, pass the storm.
it doesn’t matter, the city kid that is twentysomething me, adrift and alone and dreaming all too much. i take acid at the edge of some dumb party where some dumb chick kisses me reminding me of some dumb day or thing, or just dumb love, perhaps.
spring gave us summer which fell into a winter, and that is all. but again.
we are an american family american dreaming, and that is all. but again.
new dog on a beach, new father in a driveway, new daughter in a hurry. stories told and retold to ourselves and others and mutated into new truths, new news, new bruises but embellished new hopes and hungers. our lives rely solely upon the grease of each knuckle, each elbow, luck or no luck, we work for our happiness. we work away the days until death like microbials of some ancient-era ooze, chanced in blood and bacterial tradition.