coltrane

and the sounds of the pitter patter of little feat. the essential collection of beats to the sound of our breathing dreams. Alphabet soup and Alphabet city are spelled like this, A, B, C, D, and so forth. a robot beat for the robot drums and thunderstorm approaches and we take shelter in the basement of our thoughts. the steady hand of whispers in the dreams of clouds where we once lived. I can count, 1, 2, 3. four...like count chocola and frankenberry...can we be frank or are we tater tots that got burned in the oven. the settling sun was pointing due east in the ragged winds of the tempestuous storm...or brains were fried like an egg sunny side up. I have to get up early so I can begin running away from what I really don't remember. can we say the blurry vision of our octagonal sunglasses were pointing to the horizon of our early lives? I'm going to put this on the record and let it spin like a merry go round with a clown's face on it. The clown had a brown face and it was made of tiny little particulate matter that some would call poo. Is Jason black? probably since I imagined it so. it was a nice clean shot, and his head swirled as if caught up in a hurricane.