Prompt: What is the Best Gift You’ve ever Received?

22 08 2012

“Nay, Yay, I will only send you angels,” she said. Of course the wings are the wind and the left brain is the flow but the river knows much better than any thought could guess we got here miles before the landing we stopped there happy to be friends with only care no care without a care, only care, it was there I saw you sitting or was it myself we could have sat all week at least I trusted you and you let me, I don’t know how you felt but then we were gifting french toast and soda a mixture made in the random bingo cage wheeled seventeen spins before the police officer shouted “We got one!” Guilty as smelled! Hand been dealt she wrote a song for me I sang it and in the lights of self-set up heat I found a million tiny yous and I was just as tiny didn’t seem to notice my view in cognito I do like to lick the microphone bight ears of cats just nibbling, playing heying horses nursery calculus rhymes these characters seemingly defined as undefined tried tested reworked re-emphasized, I sighed, you kept on ticking, so did I the time bomb on your monster’s neck who will save the only defected hole in the death star how far did the critters run before skyscrapers collapsed on stories we only ever heard of in the television I swear this city was attacked well before the millennium I sense it in my own brainwashed mind my own perverted desires intuitions learned and conspired this moment is one I do care for for you is an idea an abstract notion I you we I feel and care exists or at least something like it like a train rolling through Colorado rain to Bob Dylan’s unplanted grave pilgrimage she sang a song through me and I say why, thanks. Why? Stopped short before gratitude made a fort we could play in paintball b.b. guns and all and thanks. And thanks I feel your attack. I feel your attack. I can be with you here as you feel attack. The attack a feeling a being a giving a FUCK YOU or fuck me I’m scared of my own power told by the future it would be another hour how sour we taste when our wounds are made of cannon balls and laced with shot off gunpowder when our wounds are made with umbrella poles and high heels and laced with salt of laughter how worded wounds conform to stools we sit on with ample breathing room the sound of intention broke the barrier of all my control leaving self be co-opted by another being soul tilling soil for the oil I’ll plant a new tree here, the same tree that was planted millions of years ago for me for free for the expense of being this breathing this gift. You looking at me. I see myself in your beautiful eyes — we are not only our selves.




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