At night the stars come down and attach themselves to my veins and float back up to the sky.
Airplanes and satellites slash at my cold veins as they follow the stars across the night.
When the sun comes up my veins are released and they spring back inside me severed and covered in space dust.
That’s okay, they have all day to heal.
For my next vacation I thought I would like to be Aquaman but since he is kind of an “in charge” ,scaly kinda guy I decided against it.
I think for my next holiday I will be a protozoa. Just float around in some good clean ocean water without a thought for the hungry predators lurking around salivating over the thought of me as they follow in the wake of Aquaman to save the world from some catastrophe I stirred up earlier in the sea thousands of miles from my vacation as a protozoa.
She ran to the tall window and stared out on the storm crossing the sea.
It was about four miles out yet but the trees were trying to lay down already and the cold rushes spoke of hail and big hard rain drops . She turned back to look in your eyes as lightning struck and turned the whole bit to oil and canvas.
And you stood there, enthralled.
The down time is a bear trap that floats around
And try as you may to chart its courses or calculate its velocity based on nutrition or the weather
in the end it will always play you for the fool
if you were right
That is part of the power
of the down time
You may not know exactly when it leaves
but you won’t have to guess
about the arrival of the down time
when its sharp jaws mash your heart and head together in a bloody hemorrhage
to signal the beginning of the long dull tics
The tics that mark the passing of the down time
A lady called me at the end of Christmas
To wish me a Happy New Year
She asked me
“What is happy? “
I said what so she could tell me
“A dog eating ice cream
that’s what happy is”
When I am a gorilla
Shake me from the trees
Comb my hair with mother of Pearl
While I lie there
In the deepest jungle
With little beads of soft rain
Poised upon my silver back
The lock is full of tumblers
With jingly jangly bells
Doing cartwheels all the day
In bright yellow shirts and pants
That fit Too tight
But then the dial is turned
And they melt into the fetal position
Falling into all of their appointed places
As certain as Braille
the time of bliss
is not in a table
or fixed in the rotation of planets
and the position of stars
it falls from the heavens flung out of some alien’s doom
into the life of
it finds its own time