Sometimes she smells like roses and coconuts...

Everyday I bow to the eons and ions and atoms
within and surrounding her
for guiding me to the reality of which I enjoy being inside.

My life wasn't meant to be boxed into a 9-5 soul-******* vacuum office cube
trying to convince folks to buy bread with "homemade flavor" or fizzy brown corn syrup. That's how alcoholics are born.  

My living spirit is is supposed to play
like my inner child
at 2am smoking something
and waving to stars that might be spaceships
and singing songs to the silver moon.
I have to live like poetry in order to write.
Maybe not drink like poetry...
let's just say my time in Atlanta
might put Dylan & Edgar to shame.  

And she allows us to love like poetry,
our minds travel to soothing lands
where words mean nothing
and the only way to communicate is through sacred azure moans
of hyper-iridescent effervescent ecstasy.
That's what the truth sounds like.

I'm unchained,
back into the wild of myself,
unfettered from the confines
of a story or musical piece,
instead allowing my self and body
let the words and music play & write through me
like some fleshy electric with a hint of indigo flute fountain pen
so that others may know this glorious living that is poetry.