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Now that I’m growing young / into my second childhood
I’ve decided to forsake / brooding brows and swinging mood
All things that I tell now / and all stuff that I read
All thoughts I jot on paper / must be understood by a kid.

Now that I’m growing young / turning green once more
I have decided to think simple / leave behind the abstract’s door
All things that I do now / all thoughts that I seed
All words I shoot from mouth / must be understood by a kid.

Now that I’m growing young / I must not find it hard
To not beat about the bush / speak straight not mincing word
All words that I speak or write / all words the others read
All my penning on the paper / must be understood by a kid.

Now that I’m growing young / I must break each old rule
Make clarity my hallmark / lucid expressions my tool
Whatever price I have to pay / would not pay the abstruse a heed
All my outpouring on the canvas / must be understood by a kid.
 Feb 2014 Aleska Servian
-
Love can heal you
Love can damage you
Even the best
Can hurt the most
Not always
Just sometimes
love is one fruit
that with ripeness
does not fall.
a drive of 120 miles today and it's what I got at the end of the road.
10w.
Sitting packed in the back
of a semi-decrepit white Subaru
belonging to the Swedish Harpist
driven by the Romanian Drummer
with a literal car-full
of perfectly tetrised musical instruments,
including:

Four cymbals, two toms, a hi-hat, and a stool,
a Celtic double-Harp,
an electric Piano,
and two guitars
(an acoustic-electric twelve-string and an electric six-string)
with a few days' clothing
and, not knowing where we're sleeping, a sleeping bag,
all the while
devouring Matza and pumpkin seeds
(that we bought at Trader Joe's)
as we barrel moderately safely
down various back roads and Highways
in this car weighted as a truck and driven as a motorcycle
towards enigmatic San Francisco
to play a couple shows,
two days in a row:

one, at a literally underground Theatre
(in which improv comedy is, apparently, king of kings)
smack-dab 'pon the border of Union Square,
and another, for a private birthday party
typified by oh so many avid Burners.

Surely, our Psychedelic Jazz Funk-Rock
will find some empathic ears!

Y'know, last summer,
when I said I wanted
to be in a Gypsy Band,
I sure didn't see this coming:
this is pretty ******* Gypsy,
in my observational opinion.

Well,
here I am,
and I even asked for it.

For us three,
this will certainly be
an interesting few days,
down in the Bay,
on our way to play
wherever it is we may,
and all I can say
is: "Okay,
this is the stuff
books are made of,"
and, "Well,
time to live
one hell of a story!"
And it was so;
life is best lived
and so often is wasted
on the living.
I'm so glad I set aside the time to type this up.
I uploaded this when I got home,
but the notion was conceived of in said circumstance.
Revisions may yet occur, but I feel most of them are over.

Both shows were great.
We were very well received.
We made $50 in tips in the first hour we played the Theatre:
three cheers for drunk old ladies!
Wow, that sounds incriminating.
Oh well.
I even made a few friends along the way!  

Discussed on the trip were such topics as:
Philosophy, Taoism, Buddhism, Hinduism, Islam, Judaism, Christianity, Carl Jung, paganism, shamanism, botany, intoxication, Terrance McKenna, sobriety, authority, subversion, art, technology, music,  musicology, anthropology, ethnomusicology, acoustics, physics, calculus, geometry, numerology, symbology, language, etymology, linguistics, magic, the Occult, Tarot, I Ching, psychology, mythology, geology, astrology, astronomy, ethics, economics, death, life, love, lust, enlightenment, transcendence, bliss, hope, fear, pain, illusion, religion, politics, acting,  and how glorious Western culture is.

Interesting people,
to say the least.
Midnight roses, with bruised petals,
Soft and sensual, touching, touching,
Arousing aromatic scents,
Lingering in my mind, teasing,
And I imagine you’re here with me,
Touching, touching, so touching,
We see the stars, whirling,
Lost souls, waking, stirring,
Knowing, we are more than a dream,
Beyond anything palpable, and still,
We touch, and I wonder, will you stay,
As I gather you to me, embracing,
Knowing, we can live within a dream,
I push away the empty pillow,
Thoughts of you, drifting, fading,
Aromatic scents, lingering, fading,
Alone again, without you, dreaming of,
Midnight roses, with bruised petals.

© Paul Chafer 2014
With a nod to Sean Critchfield for the words 'bruised roses', the remainder written during the small hours.
My words hang on a lemon tree, bitter and sweet, but swinging free.
A crust of pie, sat in a dish, tempting all to try.
Egg white and sugar, sickly sweet all fluffed up with air.
A combination of sharpness, a ****, just a little icky, but veritably sticky.
Shove them  in the oven, watch them puffing up, with peaks all glowing brown.
(C) LIVVI
 Feb 2014 Aleska Servian
Traveler
What is this feeling
that leaves me longing
My heart begs to hold on
Yet the golden dream
of this beautiful stranger
fades from real to reality
Although we've never met
I know her somehow
Somewhere someway
Perhaps from the past
Perhaps from the future
Maybe a soul mate
I've yet to meet
It's as if she was torn
from my being
And in my waking hour
I am but half a man.
I long for more
than just a dream
Yet at least I hold her
in my unconscious world...
Traveler Tim
The strange life of a Traveler.
Re to 02-17
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