Saturday, June 25, 2011
in the times of clarity and the ether of inbetween
when worlds collide like building falling into themselves. When the dusty smoke of your heart pitter patters and you feel the love so much. It's like a gorilla on steroids stuck in a cage. The genius playlist of your emotions is running high. Like the sun sleeps after the summer solstice and we are holding hands in some wheat field. You with your dress, shimmering in the light. Me with the necklace I bought in chinatown glittering with all the fools gold mined from rivers of passion, depth, sorrow, relief, and happiness. The tiger is paper, but is stronger than we think. Shadows dance across the walls of the gates of heaven and we could not be happier. The printer hums with the delicate keystrokes of words carefully considered. Inconsider all of this and the spell check says it's not a word. I'll have to write Websters about this, you know it takes 10 years for a word to become slang, though in the age of the internet I think those rules have been bent. Bend it like light and not like Beckham. I dream of days gone by, days that are now, and days that are to be created. I want to live in the now and not in the daze. Not in the clear ultraviolet light of sad strings and music to make you feel. Let's write our own stories and right the ships that we sail . We can go forth and be brave, because it's the only way to be. Let's open the doors to this thing. Let's crash those gates.