I saw a 30-something lady in a dress today.
And it was like poetry, the organization, the tandem of her hips pulling at the fabric. It was kind of a soft, synthetic fabric, too, probably good for my feels. I was explaining this to my co-pilot with crude hand gestures, and someone in a nearby vehicle looked at me like they new what I was doing, like they knew.
Maybe their heart burned there, too.
We have in our hearts
poetry?
And maybe nobody feels like this, but I vouch not that I have the common vision, indeed, "a hell of a vision, ain't it?" I however vouch a certain common linkage to the human condition, a kind of conduit, but then that dang superconductive mineral that is my blood. The common experience, the role, the dole, the rote and the smote, here I sit simmering, emitting a waft of smoke.
I watched my tractor porn, too, after googling, I mean "ogling" the girl in the parking lot, both as per my want, and as both as far from me as the Pangean Pyramid on Antartica.
Tell me, Jean-Louise I Am,
would you could you,
with a ho?
Would you could you,
cultivate some bean rows?
Why then, Jean-Louise I AM,
don't you say what you know?
Rather than complaining
about your want of dough?
Maybe then,
our sanity swings,
like our bedraggled freedom rings,
and here, from the wings,
I blog these strange things.
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