Like the rounded tip
of God's clipped big toenail
     is late August's moon.

As sweet as summer rain
Elusive like a melody
From a dream.
I waited for you
On the bridge
I thought I heard your voice.

We are all rivers, you see.

Your own reflection is held by the fish you catch, at breeze point of day. At golden oaks Sunday sun.

At summer’s hold, a the chapel’s bell, heard, prayed, taught that…

THE SAND, fate, a stranded old dog, like myself. At early morning lunch, I hunt at rivers. And so my face washed by the glass like greens of water, watermelon.
We are rivers, this is mine, this is reflected by my memories and my torments.

atoned sinners, contrite heart

A book full of blood, washed up, up to her simmering feet, her lovely, tanned feet. The women I’ll forever hold my service too, and my heart hung at the museum for her, to remember devotion.

unspoils ungrateful, heals the lost.

Like a gun in the down LOW of whiskey barrel
O a gambler sombrero, who drinks sotol at the Pacifico of México. And walks by wine bodegas, not found, not lost, but searching. She somehow found me. By my river, her river, both our. You see, we are all rivers.

TIME is much more valuable, when you sort out your troubles with stories to tell…

Shadows of summer
Leave a mark upon my heart
As they grow longer

Fed by summer heat
The foolish spring garden grew
far beyond its plot
So frightening its bounty
the harvest rots on the vine

I have a great piece coming up. This isn’t it, I misplaced it,
but as soon as I find it, I’ll post it. This one is less-than-perfect.

The less-than-perfect summer felt like love.
There were some genuine moments of glamor
and a few new, intense, sense-memories to relish.
It wasn’t easy but we performed that magic called
holidaymaking - things in life don’t just happen.

Ok, some things just happen, like slip and falls,
heatwaves, hurricanes, car accidents and aging,
but the good things, like love, and hotel bookings
usually require a little planning and effort.

On the beach there’s a sense of infinite space,
but it comes with its own kind of circumscription.
You know, deep down, that it’s only summer,
and the paradise offered is slippery and temporary.
It’s the dark side of long holiday freedom, that
the discordant noises of fun soon fade, like tans.

Strips of perfect polaroid pix, will be stuck to my dorm room wall -
scenes that will act as talismans, tchotchke-like reminders of
overly straightened hair, sweet kisses and foolish shenanigans.

So, bring on the less-than-perfect hours of study,
I’ve done it before and I’m just about ready.
Bring on the weeks of less-than-perfect sleep,
It’s senior year, the experience should be unique.
Bring on the less-than-perfect social submission,
I’m a less-than-perfect ******* a less-than secret mission.
.
.
Songs for this:
Don't Forget the Sun but The Explorers Club
Feel It Still by Portugal. The Man

08.18-2:15p