Cool kid euphoria with our pastel colored pants and our Raybans on is what we all are in the basement of the 50’s house.
Our phones blowing up while we sip whiskey and wine.
Trying to get the attention of the cars on the main road
By handstanding and flashing and cheersing our beers
And we receive our victorious honks.

Guitar clock radio with numbers around the fretboard and Sir Paul smiling and crooked, acid-trippin’ guitarist/violinist/celloist looking product of orange and gold look down upon as our patron saints.
Swingin’ low, Sweet Chariot words stares up at me from the 70’s floral carpet.
Ralph Stanley and Eric Clapton singing solos and duets in my head keep me company as the boys play and figure out key changes.

Painted screen hiding the Etta James microphone stands forgotten in the corner—
As I take in the teals and roses and golds.
Give me a heart shaped box where I can store my love
I fly so high in the world above
I’ll come back down eventually.

Lava lamped water stain engulfs the ceiling. As fingers go up frets
And they go down frets
And they go up frets
And they go down frets.
As you don’t enunciate when you sing.
We all mourn  our fallen brethren, the base of the telecaster with no strings and no head and it weeps silently from its place on the water pipes, hearing his cousins WAAAIIIIILLLLLL.

As Cool kid euphoria is created with our pastel colored pants and our Raybans on in the basement of the 50’s house.

We work all day so we can drink all night
Getting high off the drug that is each other
Chain-smoking Pall Malls like it’s our job
Listening to oldies as we shoot the eight ball in the corner pocket.
Garden tools and Lawn Mower parts as a sweet, creepy décor in the dank basement
As we breathe in mold and dust and cigarette smoke.

We are gloriously young.
So *******.
We still think we can change the world.
Not through politics or through fear or by means of war
But by doing just enough to get by and loving everybody for who they are, even the parts or religions or particular ways of life we don’t like,
Because people aren’t what they do or what they believe
They’re who they are.
We still think we can change the world
And Maybe one day, we will

But for now
We’ll just be here,
In the basement of the 50’s house with our pastel colored pants and our Raybans on.

Walking one day some sidewalk in a downpour,
The gentle kiss of rain on face and hands,
Amidst a million identically imperfect droplets,
I spot one, darling Snowflake in the sky.

Thrusting with my hand I catch the fragile beauty;
Behold her limpid, gleaming crystal form;
Learn in my warm palm her unique glow;
Hope never to take from her my eyes again.

But far too hot with fire was licked my flesh,
Far too bright and burning lamped my gazing eyes—
My tender wet snowflake like a lonesome tear
Left my trembling palm and ran back to the sky.

When even now I walk in gentle rain,
Many years since and many soggy days;
Sometimes my tears will join the falling drops—
How could I love them, after knowing her?

Here   a  
              single  woman
                      
                 staying.



Her  cottage  area

                was  on  top
        
                  of   hill.



In      only  December
that  old  woman  
lamped  her  house.


   One  night   the  lamp  light
  seen.


  

   People   went  up
to  her  house,
saw  thousands
  creature  were
dancing.






These  were  ready  to

sent   outside  the
solar  system's
planet  for
to   fool the  Earth
residents.

I'm high on the anonymity
Twisting and shifting outside my sight
But it's fine
Because I'm drifting
Past lighted windows
And lamped streets
A million people
Have all done this before
I will not be the first
And I will not be the last
How many people
Will I only ever see once?

Open the black
                 Crack
                           In the universes
Mask
         Veiled over the abstract
                                        Tracks
          Of human foot stamps
Measuring inchpounds
                             Torque
In the aftermath of cells born
                                              Fast
Unless your slower
Than the tortoise who won the hare
                          By never kicking back
And he's running the race
Faster
Than the stat
Paced ahead
Of the rabbit in a hat


You look like a gastropod mollusk
But what you talking about Willis
When the race is almost finished
God will end it for us

Under his own sun
The moon reflects
The glow within us spinning

And
        We

Open the black
Of the dark
With the light of our axe
Lamped harder then a
Sword in a battle of impacts

Cracking open that darkness
With the sharpness
Of a knife cutting light
In the battle for an armistice

We fight

The fauceting flow
               Into a sink