I’ll talk to you later banana man, perhaps when a purple supernova is exploding silently in space, producing a haloed raspberry stain on the galaxy’s busty belt, leaving a silver and nearly imperceptible scar on the leg of the Milky Way. Only tremulous and sad-faced grasshoppers can truly and tremendously tell.
I flit from thought to thing like the busy ant, seeking only the cozy but unstable sheltering warmth of this anthill mind, turning to find not a friendly community of neighboring ants, but a fluid mix of memories and words as liquid as the briny sea herself.
Imagination is the image and if the bloom is colorfully fresh, the blossom is now.
Journal
Undated from the month of August 1983:
Koan Riot
In an hour you can grapple with the harvest moon
Daughter of the dawn and crystal lake
Goat foundation and drunken fist
Rainbow margin, it’s not too late.
On a summer day the eye begins
Threading the daw with cruel extraction
Remembering jewels of your abstraction
In another time, another place.
Indecent knurl and bout of curve
Bloody greaves and innocent tallow
A chance for risking fiddle marrow
Alive, awake, or not.
Fibrous hopping from root to root
Shadow of vein and cowslip plain
And the craft of heavy custom
Sink silly in the jelly hut.
Jesting doctor in the kennel
Herald of herbaceous spring
Make your mark and test your mettle
Gown and cord is now your ring.
Germinate on floating flood
Fascinate our floribunda
With wealth of light
And patchy flixweed.
Frock to hold the purple flux
Mandrake and grey pearl
Surge to coat your manacles
With embracing fire.
June, under protective stars, in firelight –
an especial situation, sweet beneath the boughs
Crescent faculties awakening, from the callous and lethargic sleep
of midnight orgies in the public places
In the spirit of a lost pint
I know the blurred secrets
And shudder to keep them so
Know words which place my spirit anywhere in style of place and time
Imitative and praising
Always praising and to the last dance gazing
Following freedom in ice-cone cylinders
Home like waves on a broken sea
A season of plenty of hugs.
Journal