boo the loser and yet the concoction of adrenaline on a sunny day field of gyrating bods for fun, (weave of which boo was too woven) remained undiluted and 'pure' to its essence its effervescence...whether good or bad unstated (some of the language bore cultural wash that flavored the scene with whisps of bene & mal). kinda untouched by the loss, boo did not change the angle of her head. the curve of her lips did not go convex if they were concave. boos mind itself was unenslaved by even the idea of 'less than' when the whole deal was out and out rich and fulfilling like the puffy cloud balloons in the green tinted sky of sweat and bloodrush.
boo was kinda sorta boo on a wonderful day, and not much more or less where more or less was not called for to cameo. the social aspect of the day was amiable. and boo had rock on friends. not the kind you only connect with on online abstracts of community, not the striands of past relationships that got a grip way back and pulled mind like sirens into past tripping adventures boo sometimes called by 'nowbothering' cause boo was like not imminent upbeam or latent cryscream, no no no, dont you know boo was Isness as bold as iznez can BE, no silkscreen or generic, no consulting of oracle or cleric, she was like what comes to mind now...a fresh lyric.
bene or mal, the filling was full. recycling in motion. single rinse wash ocean. and she laughed and laughed alot and forgot what it was made her laugh. then wrapped her arms round her hips like a shy girl. then said something outrageous real loud. green of sky about her. puff of cloud. sound like a rerun or come back again? no no thats just you. its okay, but not labelled full, empty, or true. all of which are words anyway, like jumproping for its own sake and better with three, messy playa community. her eyes burned the image and made it so. her hair surely grow. this is how life happens, boos eyes wake up from napping. full of color empty of heartache. up her tired bones and to the lake. boo is on the take.
taking clues from her other boos. her guatemalen friends salsa belly moves. curious to soak in new moves. empowered by real-time. flushed by embedded hearts of divine. hearts of sand and lyme. sign of taken back of times. reshuffle of decks and pop of dice from four ring fingers. scent of punk youth lingers. the bars the guitars the tries and tries. bonafide boo kneels to pray for balding postgrunge down the revisit this again pipe size. the prayer allows the movement to move some more. boo gets her boo friends and they all push and push her. the notes turn out to be collapsible. the sound of hollowed out seattle just barely adaptable. they push and lean and laugh and steam, boos mexican guatemalen russian american. boos bumrush the stage and flare up afire, a fierce wind of mother loving bones rises up in holy jean attire, surround sound somewhere in there lost and found.
boos ears trained. boo comes at ya pound for pound. latin love of equatorial breadth, nordic grade of redbird featherweight. dont matter come crooked, dont matter come weight. stop for the sunrise. stop but dont wait. interrupt with speeches and strange shifts of energy. honor it all by giving bloodlet old fashioned style-- yes, leeches. boo dont need to rhyme to have rhythm, got it. boo is purposeful with unknown nextness. lax of politicorrectness. hybrid the word, it dont deserve the space we gave. 'Inflect this!' boo shouts at the poetry slam. she ran into one, not part of plan.
but there in front of her and confront it? yes sir. facts only, no emotion...poetry reads often lose all meaning, drained of devotion. like kneeling to the television every morning to pray. boo found it stale, the trained voices on mic parade. like trying to breakdance on sandpaper. or titrating when you were supposed to taper. boo had her likes and dislikes and moved quickly on to paleteria. no sense hanging on with litterati ennui. gotta have ice cream! do or die! got her guatemalen boo a banana-chocolate popsicle. her czech boo got nondescript ice colored blue. mexican boo, well, horchata had to be the taste. make that two! screamed boo, and brought her confexions back to restore color to her crew. this was the life, the good life, she knew it all the while. despite half the suffering, her stance: 'dont touch the dial!'
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