there is a camping trip planned and preserved on the reservation of our hopes and dreams and summer sweet nothings. we retreat upon an open-toed weekend, cooler gemmed & ready.
there is a place in the mountains & on that wooded ridge it is waiting to be seen and witnessed. lived upon, lit upon, seedling.
sure, i love you. & sure, i’ll die. and that is forever. & forever is - no worry. no bluffs. no sweat. because this life is right, and right now is everything. yolk. to become a bloom of love more than just words and digits and plays of time. this time is ours.
is good beer. great beer. & the heat. the her. her soothes and sovereigns on this land in which we live with the whole tribe and fun days. we are our own dreams. good dreams.
meet her on the shore of a river. & she is listening and speaking and sung. with an urge to love and let begin. take precedent. take my nettled little heart and crackle like fire from it the nutrient of lonesome ode. & from the strum of that we begin.
we end. we cog back into the existence of small time small town nobodies. worked little we. service and cinema.
thus busting gut toward town and more weekends and more movement. there is motion to this curve of time, kids. curve of pages expressed & exposed here in wayward traveled poems. truths of some sort or hallucination. here we daydream.