Jun 2014
I come from a place somewhat far away from you,
Where the sky is bountiful and framed with elevated rock
And every girl of a certain social standing has been stabbed in the nose at least once
Where the when’s are dubbed by days you’ve yet to shower
Or how many rocks you’ve jumped from into raunchy radical pools of the drip drip of glacier waters, when which I swam in I felt cleaner than you did when bathing in the blasphemous bath water that will have you buried.
Far away from here, where commonplace drugs are not always used only as cushions to soften life’s blows and then throw you back into a spiral of rehabilitation,
but where I know people who use them as a part of a search, part of a curiosity about pushing the limitations of the mind deliberately, seeking a new perspective, initiating change.
Where a person is not a person but an infinity of ideas combined into the imagination and
kindness is not an effort nor a chore but a habitual benefit to both parties
where I was taught to forget the meaning of a label, because it is limiting
I denounce the generalized title 'hippy' because of lack of identification.
I am participating in the act of growth and presence. Doing me.
Where I think with genuine elation and association to the happiness I have found and collected from the bottoms of riverbeds and the insides of my parental unit’s palms.
Palm oil, lip balm, ****** brand names, brandy is a **** name, cow utters, chopstick to pizza, pizza to chopstick, sore ******* from nibbles of baby teeth, and degrading nostalgia.
I denounce my obsession with nostalgia.
Where the fields are wider than the waists of the fat men that sit on porches drinking pint after pint of the local dark ales,
no matter how cool they may seem, they are just senile.
Where I made juice. where I sold juice. where I had the juice. where juice was naturally acidic. where juice was not in a box. where juice was inside a lemon. where juice became a different concept than it used to be.
Where there are fifty people I don’t know, conozco the rest of them, but that number is getting bigger as people are being born and I am not a midwife.
Where I only ever actually hated this one kid, Chase, who was in my 5th grade class,
I loved everyone always, i still do. I want to apologize to Chase for being a total *****.
Where I’m not a kamikaze as much as you think I am, just another breeze among the bigger clouds.
Where there is a culture of a different time or place and I think I made it all up. I could be wrong but I don’t know if you’ll have anyone who says the same things about it as I do .
I come from a place where I conform to the culture kindly consciously willingly but I am not dedicated to it.
Where the sky is bountiful and framed with elevated rock
And every girl of a certain social standing has been stabbed in the nose at least once
Where the when’s are dubbed by days you’ve yet to shower
Or how many rocks you’ve jumped from into raunchy radical pools of the drip drip of glacier waters, when which I swam in I felt cleaner than you did when bathing in the blasphemous bath water that will have you buried.
Far away from here, where commonplace drugs are not always used only as cushions to soften life’s blows and then throw you back into a spiral of rehabilitation,
but where I know people who use them as a part of a search, part of a curiosity about pushing the limitations of the mind deliberately, seeking a new perspective, initiating change.
Where a person is not a person but an infinity of ideas combined into the imagination and
kindness is not an effort nor a chore but a habitual benefit to both parties
where I was taught to forget the meaning of a label, because it is limiting
I denounce the generalized title 'hippy' because of lack of identification.
I am participating in the act of growth and presence. Doing me.
Where I think with genuine elation and association to the happiness I have found and collected from the bottoms of riverbeds and the insides of my parental unit’s palms.
Palm oil, lip balm, ****** brand names, brandy is a **** name, cow utters, chopstick to pizza, pizza to chopstick, sore ******* from nibbles of baby teeth, and degrading nostalgia.
I denounce my obsession with nostalgia.
Where the fields are wider than the waists of the fat men that sit on porches drinking pint after pint of the local dark ales,
no matter how cool they may seem, they are just senile.
Where I made juice. where I sold juice. where I had the juice. where juice was naturally acidic. where juice was not in a box. where juice was inside a lemon. where juice became a different concept than it used to be.
Where there are fifty people I don’t know, conozco the rest of them, but that number is getting bigger as people are being born and I am not a midwife.
Where I only ever actually hated this one kid, Chase, who was in my 5th grade class,
I loved everyone always, i still do. I want to apologize to Chase for being a total *****.
Where I’m not a kamikaze as much as you think I am, just another breeze among the bigger clouds.
Where there is a culture of a different time or place and I think I made it all up. I could be wrong but I don’t know if you’ll have anyone who says the same things about it as I do .
I come from a place where I conform to the culture kindly consciously willingly but I am not dedicated to it.
