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Virtual Pensieves 2
Chatelayne
26 May 2002
why do waves sound like poetry? Coz' they am one with I and me. I am poetry caught up in life's big t-shirt knotted by madness on one end and ego at the other. I am the sum total of all eggs and baggins and the advent of the storm that will carry us into another inter galactic civil war where big bangs and dark holes direct the onset of a munity amidst the cacophony of voices towards a charging supernova that beats down hard on the poor guy drinking a corona on a beach at the east coast under a palm tree with sugar canes for coconuts watching bamboo paper cranes floating on a sea spray towards a white washed Spanish villa with a terracotta chimney and a garage that holds blankets in a bottle of comfort that crossed the Atlantic on a boat headed for the Dominican republic while brown khaki fatigues sat on green grasses and ate bananas stuffed with pink whipped cream and daisies.
On the other side of the reason a lady in Capri pants sits down for a movie in an empty theatre precisely ten minutes after the old man living across her street slipped and fell on the half eaten mars bar she discarded on her way out of agnes b.
Pretty roses fall from the sky on a Nordic wind and I don't know why.
The catcher in the rye eats a dead fly in Germany just as milk and almonds flow in a sea of laughter towards the nasty onion and stewed vegetable pie which hurled out of the Capri pants lady's flat in Terragon New Jersy and landed on the street in Bolivia with no name and a million faces. By the why, love clouds the murky waters of Confusion street, 2 Misery Lane, East Essex and I am whole once again in a litter of green leaf veins grasshopping through a galaxy of time into the vast swirling swooshing rush of hunter dives and killer climbs towards a pure white star above the North pole that illuminates the wave of humanity with an incandescence so light and gentle you won't feel its caress until it disappears in a puff of issey.
out of sanity already
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