The daydreamer asked, curiously:

What else do people
use those solitary
moments for
where the
mind lulls lazily
into the hazy grapefruit
halo of an afternoon

if it is not to collect
tokens of daydreams?

I am not the blithering, sad poet type.
With a foundation comprised
of bone dust,
brittle petals crumbling
at the first sign of danger.

Think of me
Fondly and fiercely
as Persephone's flower
Dreaming tenderly
upon a case of
aging dynamite.

- Rhiannon || Yeti Youngblood

We live gas station to gas station. Motel to motel. Roleplaying different stories.  Living out the bohemian fantasies of a teenage reverie. So when we check out the next morning all these little lives are left behind to exist in the folds where reality meets lazy Sunny D daydreams. And when we are old and grey and return one day to these places in holy reminiscence, our nerves will be pricked with a kaleidoscope of memory jolting sensations. I’ll turn to you and say, “Don’t you remember, my dear?” The honeydew perfume on my wrist as you kissed me up and down like a cartoon in the kitchen of the Sandman Motel? Or the feel of the unpolished, terrazzo floor in the Sunny Moon dining room with my right hand in yours and the other clutching a stolen bottle of my Father’s Aberlour? I’ll remember the times when I didn’t mind the 7/11 taquitos and you didn’t mind getting up early to watch the “Hot Donut’s” sign light in the the Krispy Kreme’s front window. Fresh baked pastries and gasoline and turquoise curtains from the seventies blowing in the hot summer seabreeze. Getting lost in milky sheets. We were a sitcom. We were romance. We were tragedy a la mode with guitar strings built out of rawhide and teeth made of ***** pearls tangled in conspiracy. These are the things I’ll smell, I’ll see, and I will remember when it was just you and me, pretty baby. Just you and me and the ******* Dream, traveling from sea to shining sea, living cheap and easy and utterly free.

To this day
I will relish
The look on your face
When I took you down
With nothing more
Than a quiver of words
That struck truer
than dragon glass
Sharper
than Valyrian steel
Imagine
My surprise when
You didn't even shatter
Just fell to the ground
Because no matter
How badly
You wanted
To be my monster
Acting as though
You were indestructible

It turned out
You were nothing more

Than a very large
Shadow

Cast
By a very small man.

And you will burn all the same

The day you left me
Was the day all the stars
Had been shaken from the sky
leaving me to walk the ****** road
In the dark where God’s harrowed
sword plunged deep into my chest
Where rebellious poetry whispered in my ear
Taught me how to redress this acrimony
With rawhide strings
That pluck
That toll
That chime
That ring
A song that would end the world
Built by Satan
Where snakes sift in and out
Between lines of love and malevolence
Awakening
The first shudder of eyelids to
Newborn wilderness
Ears quivering to the notes
Of sweet abandon
A female wailing
Animalistic sort of cry
This monster, in Eden, this Eve without Adam
Resurrected, a girl without temptation
Who is ready to survive.

I lived in a town where Sunny D dreams rested lazily on Mondays.

Nothing is go go go - no - it’s lazy to rise. Lazy to bed. Lazy to meet up with friends at the beach. Lazily chewing on donuts while we listen to songs that lazily leak through the teeth of our radio free censorship both lazily digesting in our sour guts making us lazy in the way we think. Feeding off the television, white noise static permeating the folds of our lazy minds. We now regurgitate headlines at parties lazily arguing, debating, though not a single thought is our own.  We are lazy in the way that we say we’ll accomplish something. Making up little kid dreams for broken promises of “I’ll get to it tomorrow”. But we never do. Never did. Just lazily puff on ***** shards. Our crushed bits of ignorance. Every night. Lazy sods. Working, sleeping, working, smoking, sleeping, working.
The cycle goes on.

In this land where time takes a nap. Where magnolia groves now rest lazily in the space of an old man’s memories.  You see, even time is lazy among salty air humidity that clings to lungs in a wet rag sensation so that we are lazy even in the way that we breathe. That’s why our grandparents tell us all those stories. So that we are not caught up in the lazy way light filters through the leaves of citrine sunsets that mingle into dawn.
Still, we yawn a question “what was I supposed to be doing again?” Here in this land where we all seem to exist in a static myth. Start another lazy day. Lost to IT. The big IT. The ever growing IT. The IT that consumes our lazy days with lazy work and lazy sleep and too much lazy play.

It’s easy here to let go of what this land used to be. Back when gold ships carried Ponce de Leon upon God’s wings to a place where Highway 19 was no pavement or brick or man made industry but rough and raw and hot
and undiscovered Timucuan territory. We effortlessly lose sight of our own history to lazy daydreaming  
That slow,
    drip
         drip
             drip
of time leaking into tomorrow leaking into tomorrow
leaking into tomorrow leaking into tomorrow
Until your future
   leaks into tomorrow
Until you wake up from this lazy hell.
Until you realize there is nothing left ahead on your lazy path
Until the future has become your present and you are out of
Days to dawdle and to say “I will deal with it tomorrow” before it all
None too slowly
Rather abruptly
Comes to a clashing end.