what you do and what you dont, love your life and sadness wont (touch you)

straight from my heart, thanks for waiting, anticipating, quality not quantity is what im bringing

drumming around me simply found me....right when i was needing to be found

i am at a motel with two boys and a girl,
watching Rush and other subculture kinds of fare
with our collective hitchcock blank stare.

i throw in an episode of the Shield , for which we deeply care.
then attempt to crash after a long week of work. but its friday so energy is thick, with air. infecting our aura, thora-lee !
(like some retroviral anti-scare).

i could not see it in my friend Laura, all hella jazzed and dressed up for the city...
looking rather pretty
(from my bi-op perspective).
in her dress she made herself
at the collective.

her heart in there
somewhere...
threaded to a seam, hours in a chair.

with the imperfections
homemade anything
has meaning

[not like heartless clothes
made in rows
by factory workers]

she softens
in tubs
her linens
by toes

in countries where the wages suck
down and out a cheap production
the corporate vibe is 'make a buck'
profit margins grow and grow
with no deduction

the ceo writes checks
for blow
imported himself
out of Mexico

declares all visits
'factory business'
courtesy of Nafta

[when interrogated over a table, and asked about said visits
they hold a bag of powdery substance, he asks them 'What is it??']

Laura shes on point for real
I watch her...
so far ahead of us!
Her style homemade
so non-impact
like sex
in backseat
cadillac

the leather expands
after it contracts

soul friend to the end

you know you rock? yes you do, you who touch my soul like fire lick the sky. you who rock (like) the shock of a star shooting across that very tiedye (sunset sky)? then the aftermath....sigh.... full moon, tear well in eye.... gravity takes her down the cheek -- all week to the ground. hibernated bud lost in the ground it (tear) found, integrated to crystallize in the earth (without a sound).

silent life from tear inspired by you, my baby boo, and watch now! she grows up and breaks free of soil, less gravity, less toil, now the element to handle is midday sun boil, she fights and she alights, turns into that birch girl they search for in the dark (like they search for honey or hope) (like the bad boys searching for what they say 'there aint no hope without dope!', flashlights then spotlight her standout self among oak and pine like a cinder spark (no stealth), white with black chips, (they blinked jaw droplike and slap eachother, like was it one of those LSD trips?) chocolate chip soul dip, what a girl, wanna sip?

same tear (way back when) inspire my fire (take me to ten)...how might i describe such a feeling? need a choir (to sing her)? a bell to ring her? like the ember of a breath-fueled cigar? the run up the fretboard of some rockstarguitar?

yeah, you know. no more elaborate description will do. too much embellishment and frou-frou. well... just mellow luscious meditation contemplation on you (in a nation free to so do, grateful for this amendment of free thought, too, environment also created me and you)

your general open-hearted mad goodness, your undivided zen chi, fortitude equivalency = oak tree. why these trees keep coming to my sight i see? in my mind the rings of trees have me in awe like no else. i remember those rings around your fingers all types of silvers and colors, how they too tell your life experience. the rings you wear so generously (not gaudy) like a mom & pop clearance (far from corporate experience -cringe-, corporate part of america makes us fringe, huh, hella real your worn at the knee lee-vis, together we meet at the knees! can i help you? 'gen-x grunge, please!' hole and holy mad space inbetween denim>> eyes like sun in love in sin >> keep up your chin through it or i will lift you, you me, through magnifying glass that sun of love to one another--- from our fringe minority i report to the world through this fucking bloggywog minnow guppy sucked up in corporate filter clog, just escape, pull the plug and swim free little guppy, free the wheel from the cog, grab it pull us to the side, find the backseat and baby get into you into me, everywhere you look, shook, quaking my here and now, my body begins to chill and tinge.... pull off that jacket of yours with the fringe... where you gaze upon me upon you upon us....>> singe!!

it burns the truth, our youth, the ache of dead memories we remember, nudges us like aching tooth. you be my soul friend to the end the end the end the end the end the end.

postscript (unrated and edited, previously undisclosed and tightlipped! read the new sensation ending! hype it real like your not pretending! hella marketed bewitched mailing, no just kidding thats not the kinda energy the author is sending. much more busy upending your predescription, precrime benediction, guitar licktion, this my dear beloved reader is crazymadfun fiction, outleted unique far off creation of my mental dereliction, powered by cerebellum suction and antebellum interruption. past present future time forms the slime of real time death defying deaf mime with dazzling courageous looping rhyme. there go the ego, marketing the show. leave time for q&a, drinking champagne, making William Faulkner eat crow, Ernest Hemingway get earnest and out of my way, turn to the side, oscare wilde, and slide, go away, go get lost in your dostoyevsky, get paid, gamble it away, outdated like soy or tolstoy, chosen like beggars choose eggers, West Virginia shocked by how i rock burns the B. Pancake pages, when asked to sign my book the boys they swoon and faint, surprised by the elevation, from barking of all contemporaries, todays future words in their general space and face, reminiscent of miss woolf and her evolution, the room i wrote it all in i give thanks to her solution, of my own and home grown, plant the seed now sown. edgar allen poe seems slow like gin, Rimbaud simple like Rin Tin Tin. this is all of course a playful roast of all my beloved writers, they all could pull my covers and expose my manipulation of their own creations, the little gifts they gave me, the elations! they are descendants of my incendiary sensation. my ego so large it needs a planet to reside, i humbly confide. secede the thrown and hide out. ride out the celebrity that may lie post mortem, when my work is read and absolved, and what was simply puzzling to you today, in the new paradigm feels like when solutions are solved, soluble in audible recreation, played over postmodernsurround your pores bass strings pull into your core, then you adopt the namepicture me loving you for somehow overlooking my madness and loving me.

loving you loving me, lets end on an easy sailboat floating kinda note. warning! big word coming >> symbiotic you see? we rather tire of me, you and me, we lock up my ego (like it loves the bdsm, feels it like Zen, or dreamy r.e.m., we treat it like e.m.d.r. therapy for the trauma it made in us (see scar), send it afar like an ice floe, where it resorts to illuminedglow). of course you do. the pink hat adorns you, the green eye you see the truth through, the red flower helps you empower, the asphalt behind you makes the backdrop for the knowledge and wisdom you drop like science on the masses, who to witness you skip all classes, coming to witness your sunlight in ecstatic spiritual and even catholic religious tinged flashes! the way you are cultivating to the very end of your lashes. and those like me who once fell under your radiating energy, simply bow in homage and repent our evil ways. open the door for the forgiveness you played, you said, in cacophonous vernacular sweet like lemonade, Irish green and Italian ice--- A-grade. pax

summers (not quite but anticipated) end

summers end

summer comes to an end and fall begins to rise as the leaves bleed color into the sky.... rise and fall... like the breath you take, endlessly, asleep or awake, in the quest for your true love-- oh! for goodness sake.

yes! the affirmation you chose to answer all questions posed? and the doubt fades to green mudslide the snails ride and only the sea urchins abide. away with the tide! the answer need not be wrought! need not be caught clean like a fish in the air held to dish, celebrity photo magazine spliced and recipeed out like some tilapia with rice. how cruel how unfeeling the way we push it to the gills, to the ceiling! like we can never get enough, from the river to the snuff of fish dust we aspire, our nasal hairs lit like fire.

the affirmation will sublime you...superlemon and sublime meet in swiss orange land. the flames are fanned, and they agree Lemon-Lime! this is the new marketing wave to suck time! make money and laugh. so funny. do the math on ten digit calculators. hit the best clubs and take the elevators to the VIP + lounge. well-equipped with advance to surround sound, atmosphere dolby, makes surround sound mouldy. old and decrepit. like age getting tepid. blue in the gills, against raspberry frills, hold on! its acai berry, knocking raspberry to the sideberry. antioxidants and atmosphere, making hella cats move up here. the kittens are the ones, in thongs with iron lungs. to inhale the aspiration, of your doped out motivation. then bend over like a stand up bass that folds for travel, i will pull the string and watch kitten unravel. go play with the ball of yarn! i done tapped it and moved on and on.

the time...is now to change said picture. cast aside the rich and richer. get on & off the silence-- to essay back to essence. dust the seal, connect through old channels, like monotone and black and white, scrap that, candles. unravel various maze of modern id prints. return to Penthouse made by Flint. the soft press of lips to glass seemed sad. back in the day we did not know what we had. we must go retro and return. to that place for which we yearn. no complicated intraknowing. no psychosocial edate blowing.

the tip off of the scene so retro, came by boys and girls of the urban forest united. found sad lips to touch together. to imprint one anothers code of old. to break free from corporaglamoury...they touched and pulled apart and smiled. freestyle for freestyle, child! then did it begin. river from the source, traveled back to varied depths of various lakes. the cause for stronger connection came alice, 'cause for this cause do our hearts always ache.

so we need not buy airfare and move material weight (our bodies) through celestial clouds and coach class crowds. to find eachother physically, tangibly, we need not. just join like brushes caress snares. join with faces interlocked between woven hairs. to apply the truths we fight for! not a drop of all knowing eyeliner to spare. the relentless courage we have as old friends, from nyc to san francisco and back again. current strong. the song so loving long. the spaces in between absorb all shock and cleanse. to the friendship that never ends. bless u.

one heart uncolored of young mystic offered like koan to the native colors and hearts i know through my one my only smoke spirit channeler

i was meditating on self when self walked away, without a goodbye or anything much to say, and left me for a loss. i was so gathered around self like moss. to the point of clandestine affirmation. to the high spiritual point of medieval rubrication. i painted myself in tones of red to highlight the holy in me. this all just before i walked away from me. like mid-crossing of self in spirit and holy ghost, or halfway through the blood of christ, one gets up in sacrilegious offtime, deadbeat or offbeat, genre defining allostasis, body declining allocation, christ hell damnation! that no one could see, only me looking at the backside of me, not even in awe cause it was my choice, to walk away on one plane and desert my individual race. so anyway to continue on. reprobation held back so we could see, some possibly different result outside a-z. narrow reaction leaves a fraction of knowing, like a stillheart child leaves no traction for seed sowing. the rowers keep rowing and rowing in circular motion dipped in the aqua, for equality guaranteed in sychronist tones, flavors of wood dripping with koans on loan from the parapsych department in the mental stash (what you call compartment in your wasp true words, so deft of meaning they suffer the lords whose spirits must gather on puritan spirit ground to expound the virtues of origin settlers, in blood contrast to Choncape and the Otto tribe that conferred upon him 'second chief', as a tree is sustained by a leaf he led: "one of a party to come among us", was said, "behold our strength, and report upon it to his people. He said nothing, which we heard, did nothing of which he or his tribe should be ashamed." for doing secondary to being, he liberated thus to seeing the truth, i imagine, a point deep to fathom. imagine the rhythm. the sundries. the rally cry. the rally on! and then after dark when all fast asleep, he conjures the smoke spirits, they hover a few feet high over the coals, awake from their sleep. await his motion, from his ancestral ocean, he calls them to play, play in the woods, and dissipates the smoke, like a single exhaled toke. the pipe pullers know the way of the air, the Otto despair moved up from the earth so soft, the ground swept and coals once banked, the spirits of happy hunting grounds have him flanked these hours of silent escapade, like games in the dark, like caressing native women in shade, wild as horses, hair long like manes, they painted him for war, he remembers the stains, the power of four winds harnessed like clouds, no shackles no shrouds. just that deep deep koan knowing, of one and the other, touching her breast, pulling her covers, as she so gently allows, that wild girl of the plain, for she knows hes the one, her man on the plain. he brings his thoughts back, from red threat to black night, empty of sound and sentients and sight. the thought of the smoke, nurtured with knowing, spirit love and care cultivated keep growing. on his teeth is he blowing, and blowing and blowing. the prayers flowing and flowing, just growing!
this is what they know:

***Choncape, the Big Kansas, 0f the Otto, of a country on the Missouri, east and south of the boundary line dividing the Sauk and Foxes, and Ioway, from the Sioux. ' troublesome' to settlers during the war of 1812 with Great Britain, arid frequently 'harassed and interrupted' the trade between Missouri and New Mexico. then subject to poor treaties created by fear, they signed them in blood and shed not a single tear in the process. they licked wounds. counted losses. integrity remained, integrity of tribe and its causes.... Among the names of the eighteen signers to this treaty, so was told, we find Shunk-co-pee. This is our Choncape.But the conditions of a treaty with distant and roving bands of Indians, who are as wild and untamed as their buffalo, were not relied upon as of sufficient strength out of which to erect barriers for the protection of the trade which the treaty of 1825 was mainly intended to secure. There was one other resort on which greater reliance was placed; and that was, to select and bring to Washington, and through our populous cities, some of the leading chiefs of those bands whose pacific dispositions it had become of such moment to secure. Among those who were selected or this object, was Choncape. That Choncape had been in contact with the grizzly bear, whose claws he wore as an ornament around his neck, was less known to white man. while at Washington, he was peaceful in his looks, and orderly in his conduct. He said nothing, which we heard, that is worth recording, and did nothing of which he or his tribe should be ashamed.

This was all that was known, and yet known was more from the pen of the girl who was the daughter of the american revolution, whose descendant was Richard Stockton, signator of the Declaration of Independence. and through her the words came to know the man deeper, Jerray Nickel, he was a keeper. she let the word move her, the way he moved spirit, from smoke to the base of the little boys sneakers and up through his bag to shadow his face, he cried a half hour, sos suddenly displaced! like his people long before him, he was running.

Running from religious sucking of feathers, yet bound to the new land with renewed concentration, like camps fueled with gaslamps and securing the fears of indian cares not of the white man, arrows sent at him in symphonic waves, to undermine all of the 'jesus!' and 'saves!'. the shadow so large they ran for their own, up against native replete with strength of old koans, intuitive sense so sharp as a knife, they take preachers scalp and take preachers wife. put her in leather so soft cause they care, hides of most sacred and honored animals they blessed before they cessed, lives divided from spirits, often to liberate the sick or lonely one for whom it was only a matter or time, so not too late to take early, pray and show gratitude, in some longforgotten crooked strait). the sacred ash placed on the ritual fire, the women and children witness so much then retire, the elders draw near the fire, draw close and wash the paint of war, into a bowl of water now colored, and make of us the other, using all the gifts, hide to hoof to bone and wish. and the preachers wife she smile, decorated as a native woman and passed her trial, given a good husband and hunter, who will provide for her in harsh winter, no bibles except to burn, no lessons except from natural breath of experiential to learn, none but her new tribe to mourn, and every dawn filled with love to yearn for her lovers return come vespers falling sun, burning red and day ready always done, nothing bare or broken, no words of hate ever spoken, only words of truth, and prayers for papoose, when she bears fruit for him and her and the tribe. dancing wild to diatribe. ritual lunge and ritual dive, she is a part of each and every live, no longer alone shut away in the white mans home, no longer burdened by words so far removed, rather loved and cherished and painted in lavendar to celebrate the coming of the rain dancers calendar, . and fear came to visit and was given expired yogurt to acid wash him out of what was once my space before self slipped silently south.... you touched the lip the edge of my mouth, you drew across each line and sensed in me the divine... i was slowly becoming your girl in a moment, damn you, you lover above her, below my taste and middle finger to class from this rebellious urban country lass with the fine ass you go to tap. whoops, kat made a kitten cry and felled you like the oak tree you are into my embracive lap. a trap! i set for you, to challenge you like you knew i knew--you loved. the competitive T in your limbic system, turn the concertgoers over and frisk them, they like it, black and white and in between, latin fight and loco steam. you laugh at them, when genders noticed, women frisk men and it comes into focus. a sexual gesture of touch at this show, no careless meandering of hands and toes. the bold men on staff with the muscles to prove, roll batons down ladies backs so supple and smooth. the crowd allures and gathers like fabric, to test this shady new urban rubric. amen. apropos of nothing & all.

***(bold text derived from online sourcing of Wikipedia - Ottoe tribe keyword). slightly altered for sake of measuring and connecting to fiction surrounding it. if i footnote wrong, please tell me how to do it right, and all apologies).
Katya
Katya

precious singular you: in self- rubrication

"One of a party to come among us", was said, "behold our strength, and report upon it to his people. He said nothing, which we heard, did nothing of which he or his tribe should be ashamed." for doing secondary to being, he liberated thus to seeing the truth, i imagine, a point deep to fathom. imagine the rhythm. the sundries. the rally cry. the rally on! and then after dark when all fast asleep, he conjures the smoke spirits, they hover a few feet high over the coals, awake from their sleep. await his motion, from his ancestral ocean, he calls them to play, play in the woods, and dissipates the smoke, like a single exhaled toke. the pipe pullers know the way of the air, the Otto despair moved up from the earth so soft, the ground swept and coals once banked, the spirits of happy hunting grounds have him flanked these hours of silent escapade, like games in the dark, like caressing native women in shade, wild as horses, hair long like manes, they painted him for war, he remembers the stains, the power of four winds harnessed like clouds, no shackles no shrouds. just that deep deep koan knowing, of one and the other, touching her breast, pulling her covers, as she so gently allows, that wild girl of the plain, for she knows hes the one, her man on the plain. he brings his thoughts back, from red threat to black night, empty of sound and sentients and sight. the thought of the smoke, nurtured with knowing, spirit love and care cultivated keep growing. on his teeth is he blowing, and blowing and blowing. the prayers flowing and flowing, just growing!
this is what they know:

Choncape, although of the Ottos tribe, is called the Big Kansas, The Otos, or Otto, own and occupy a country on the Missouri, east and south of the boundary line dividing the Sauk and Foxes, and Ioway, from the Sioux. They were troublesome during the war of 1812 with Great Britain, arid frequently harassed and interrupted the trade between Missouri and New Mexico The first treaty between the United States and the Otos tribe was made in 1817. It is entitled, "A Treaty of Peace and Friendship." The preamble restores the parties to the same relations which they occupied towards each other previous to the war with Great Britain. The first article declared, that all injuries or acts of hostility shall be mutually forgiven and forgotten. The second establishes perpetual peace, and provides, that all the friendly relations that existed between the parties before the war, shall be restored. In the third and last, the chiefs and warriors acknowledge themselves and their tribe to be under the protection of the United States of America, and of no other nation, power, or sovereign whatever. A second treaty was concluded between the United States and the Otos and Missouri, at the Council Bluffs, in 1825. In this treaty those tribes admit that they reside within the territorial limits of the United States; acknowledge the supremacy of the United States, and claim their protection; they also admit the right of the United States to regulate all trade and intercourse with them. Other conditions are included in this treaty; among these, the mode of proceeding, in case injury is done to either party, is settled, as is a condition in relation to stolen property; and, especially, it is agreed, that the Otos will not supply by sale, exchange, or presents, any nation or tribe, or band of Indians, not in amity with the United States, with guns, ammunition, or other implements of war. Among the names of the eighteen signers to this treaty, we find Shunk-co-pee. This is our Choncape. The scribe who wrote his name Shunk-co-pee, wrote it as it sounded to his ears. Chon sounded to him as Skunk and this may be regarded as one of the thousand instances serving to illustrate the difficulty of handing down the name of an Indian. The ear of the writer of it governs, and the pen obeys. Another scribe, of some other country, would, probably, in following the sound of this Indian's name, have written it Tshon-ko-pee; and thus we might have had three Indians manufactured out of one. The rapidly increasing trade between Missouri and the Mexican dominions, and the frequent interruptions which it had experienced from the Otos, and other Indian tribes, the grounds of whose more distant excursions lay in the route of its prosecution, suggested the importance of this treaty. But the conditions of a treaty with distant and roving bands of Indians, who are as wild and untamed as their buffalo, were not relied upon as of sufficient strength out of which to erect barriers for the protection of the trade which the treaty of 1825 was mainly intended to secure. There was one other resort on which greater reliance was placed; and that was, to select and bring to Washington, and through our populous cities, some of the leading chiefs of those bands whose pacific dispositions it had become of such moment to secure. Among those who were selected or this object, was Choncape. We are to infer from this that he was a man of influence at home; and that he had the confidence of his tribe. It is to the reports of such a one alone that the Indians will listen; and it was the design that he and his comrades should not only witness our numbers and our power, but that the reports that should be made of both, on their return, should operate upon the fears of their tribes, and thus render more secure our trade with the Mexican frontier. That Choncape had won trophies in war is no more to be doubted than that he had been in contact with the grizzly bear, whose claws he wore as an ornament around his neck, in token of his victory over that animal. But, while he was at Washington, he was peaceful in his looks, and orderly in his conduct. Nothing occurred while on his visit to that city to mark him as a chief of any extra ordinary talents. The impression he left on our mind was, that he was entitled to the distinction which his tribe had conferred upon him, in making him a chief, and to be chosen as one of a party to come among us, behold our strength, and report upon it to his people. He said nothing, which we heard, that is worth recording, and did nothing of which he or his tribe should be ashamed.

This was all that was known, and yet known was more from the pen of the girl who was the daughter of the american revolution, whose descendant was Richard Stockton, signator of the Declaration of Independence. and through her the words came to know the man deeper, Jerray Nickel, he was a keeper. she let the word move her, the way he moved spirit, from smoke to the base of the little boys sneakers and up through his bag to shadow his face, he cried a half hour, sos suddenly displaced! like his people long before him, he was running.

Running from religious sucking of feathers, yet bound to the new land with renewed concentration, like camps fueled with gaslamps and securing the fears of indian cares not of the white man, arrows sent at him in symphonic waves, to undermine all of the 'jesus!' and 'saves!'. the shadow so large they ran for their own, up against native replete with strength of old koans, intuitive sense so sharp as a knife, they take preachers scalp and take preachers wife. put her in leather so soft cause they care, hides of most sacred and honored animals they blessed before they cessed, lives divided from spirits, often to liberate the sick or lonely one for whom it was only a matter or time, so not too late to take early, pray and show gratitude, in some longforgotten crooked strait). the sacred ash placed on the ritual fire, the women and children witness so much then retire, the elders draw near the fire, draw close and wash the paint of war, into a bowl of water now colored, and make of us the other, using all the gifts, hide to hoof to bone and wish. and the preachers wife she smile, decorated as a native woman and passed her trial, given a good husband and hunter, who will provide for her in harsh winter, no bibles except to burn, no lessons except from natural breath of experiential to learn, none but her new tribe to mourn, and every dawn filled with love to yearn for her lovers return come vespers falling sun, burning red and day ready always done, nothing bare or broken, no words of hate ever spoken, only words of truth, and prayers for papoose, when she bears fruit for him and her and the tribe. dancing wild to diatribe. ritual lunge and ritual dive, she is a part of each and every live, no longer alone shut away in the white mans home, no longer burdened by words so far removed, rather loved and cherished and painted in lavendar to celebrate the coming of the rain dancers calendar, . and fear came to visit and was given expired yogurt to acid wash him out of what was once my space before self slipped silently south.... you touched the lip the edge of my mouth, you drew across each line and sensed in me the divine... i was slowly becoming your girl in a moment, damn you, you lover above her, below my taste and middle finger to class from this rebellious urban country lass with the fine ass you go to tap. whoops, kat made a kitten cry and felled you like the oak tree you are into my embracive lap. a trap! i set for you, to challenge you like you knew i knew--you loved. the competitive T in your limbic system, turn the concertgoers over and frisk them, they like it, black and white and in between, latin fight and loco steam. you laugh at them, when genders noticed, women frisk men and it comes into focus. a sexual gesture of touch at this show, no careless meandering of hands and toes. the bold men on staff with the muscles to prove, roll batons down ladies backs so supple and smooth. the crowd allures and gathers like fabric, to test this shady new urban rubric. amen. apropos of nothing & all.