Buzz or Bust
Left acling on the old feather of an angel, your rust. Glimpsing infinite cosmos, are ya. Well two matters humming may indeed relegate. There is no telling why. Protective bubble of love wrapt round me as I spend cash at the convenience store. Gusts of care pooling out. Out, out, out forever. Into bent knee when I kneel for the Queen of Another Place, whose name is just her title. And she claps all royally that barely energized way as the doves fly overhead, dropping palm leaves. Rain of palm leaves landing with spent flits. The doo-dad ornamentation to all things every last speck of matter. There will never be another way to get back here, once I leave. But like a dream, I will gather up my most immediate recollections and hold that imagery close to me. Close to my heart. To the heart of the thing itself, it is my person. There is just a song all steel drums going bananas with such high frequency the recording flips out and swells, breaking. The celluloid’s analog limitation brutal. Toward the crescendo, unable even to be perceived. Right a’now I do though I do write to the music from Donkey Kong Country 2. Somehow really just beautiful. Actually a how, because it makes your heart happy to be able to hear it. Even just having the gameplay up onscreen, it becomes hard to not look over to it and become hypnotized. So beautiful. Simpler parts of that age make it, in hindsight, easier to follow. Pixelated webs. Pixelated spider in loud red-n-yellow sneakers. Etc. But to the brunt of today forever. Tomorrow can wait. While I am here, I want to exalt this truth. Walk through my livingspace like it’s a beach. The Beach. Road-flung beautiful warm always falling apart but still soft and still whole. Yellow sun gracious behind clouds, glazing the planet in love. You notice with some certitude you are feeling well. Better than before. You find it pretty reassuring. You may not know what to say or how to say it, but due rest time is all love. All one amazing thing, brought together. To capitulate the sounds of life marrying and changing themselves together. Vowels get prolonged in a glottal echo that pinballs through canyons. Names get writ in stone that seem too be remembered. Not quite Ozymandius. May be spelled wrong. It become another structural quality to the world. The living in the world. Round quality flights. Through hypnogogic lulls and to the sound of strong white noise imagining you are a bald eagle soaring high through the clouds and overlooking endless oceans. And the words “I’m just going to lay here a while” given to you like a gift you can use forever. Buzz or Bust. The title came first and I have not integrated this. For all the ways language can be like music, I am floating in trill shapes like a lasagna. See, now isn’t that more of the nonsense you’re looking for. But it doesn’t mean anything. Even still, comparing. This word after that words after that one, together all before punctuation. When streams end, when tears dry. When drool gets wiped off your chin in the morning. Who is the one responsible for everything being able to feel so nice? When does less spiffer drake tense? How und room fore drink is smaller than now it seems. How I pull from the thinnest air a word of two like ladybugs off my shirt. Walking through dense fields. The chapter to begin has already started, love. And it is all, all, all so lovable. When this pouring motion of the apple juice makes a conic diagram in each splash. When while I wait in my untagged shirt at the stop for a bus or a train the highest rises give pulls beneath me from the sight of rain. On the only morning mist clouding errything. Do you doze off like a lion, then? Where is that place that was once your dreams? Does it come from within you? And why. Why do you have to go? You may forget, we were ever here. Dust on lampshades and stars-for-eyes attendants. Whole whirlpools of this single day going turning, turning in. Like a bear for winter. Then somehow. How, you say. Somehow, newer things. The paragraph has information, but does not permit the most meaning, you could say. The imagined book like a thin drinking glass you’re afraid to open lest it break. Sand. Dunes of The Beach’s sand getting haircuts from the wind. Off the water. Green, blue water. Roaring out in open space. Take me there, with you.