Explosion--BAM! The citrus weasels its way to awaiting nostrils--fills mind causing drool for the taste not had is had via other cause--causing mind blowing rainbows. Citrus oh citrus: lemon, lime, orange, and tangerine make my jaws tingle with the tang twang that creates the wild mild abstract concrete sensation. Nation behold! Fold out under rhythm bounce blues ticking time unwind to roads roaring past non-existing buildings that have not yet formed by only thought--run function at junction combine time/space continuum to form the formless...yes it is sweet. Sweet-sweat heat from body bounces to sky not lying in rest to nest at the behest of beasts who feed on meat to bones laid to waste in desert storms--again back to form--formless--endless--WOW in the now upside down MOM flipped and slipped into infinity--fly now or die mighty with boots on in blazing glory on the moon.
Drastic plastic elastic to the core--dried and tied--tried to be a stone unmoving--moss forming--no roll to bowl over--feces forming on space--forming acts rising from acts of fire--liar! Be not there hare! Run to the hole not snare the bear who runs for fun in wild chase to face the wild things that sing loud to the crowd who listens not to songs, but who smile while monkeys dance to tunes on the moon-space--score observed and orchestrated by an abstract conductor--prized dance bear–bare hairless and naked.
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Running. Hall bounds vision of fall--teeth busting on solid floor--blood spurts--I see me. Bleeding and toothless crawling on the floor for the door that cannot be reached from bridges and windows. Jump to escape the encapsulated form that won’t die--can’t fly but bleeds.
Seeds planted--one hole--tri seed--one being sees self in the fall in the hall. How many jumps can pump the blood into the arteries? No bite in sight. The fall from it all leaves me senseless. The vision has no form.
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The rose looks rather like gears in the machine. Both spin in clockwise motion showing dimension without color. Why is it void of color yet loud of design? I question why the show is slow yet sometimes so loaded with emphasis on the specifics. Side by side comparison. The man makes the gears that spins his wheels and makes his meals keeping time inside the mean machines. Oiled. In the end foiled by his own folly. The rose will bloom made by the mother and no other for the simple nature of its being. Beautiful round non-mechanical blossoms into color without help–without money–not geared to spin in cycles of fine tuning but could be viewed as divine. The clock will show no recognition. The rose only knows the sublime time of the season. ~ Maggie ~ Penned January 6, 2010 at 1:32 a.m. EST
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