proto-poem, prose
I drive across the desert under skies as dark as tannat, stars bleached out by the full moon which shnes like a searchlight across the open landscape. As I wander through the garden of failed romances, their bones peeking out from the rich loam and the roots of unruly vines, I wonder, what will your place be?
Will you be more bones and flesh and history to enrichen this garden of the surreal, your molecules forming chlorophyll and tannins for me to drink in the deep watches of the night, while I stare across the valley, or will you bring your pruners, gloves, posts, and cordons, and bring order to the vineyard of my heart from out of the chaos of improper custodians, and make my fruit shine deep, rich, and fulfilled within the glass? Thus allowing me to stand before my maker, and say, "Drink me, O Lord, for I am ready to be one with you. I am yours."
I walk through the mesquite by moonlight, dodging thorns and intrigue by the edge of a river, hoary with frost and age, carrying the bones of the sea, the children of the sky, and the brothers of fire, worn into cobbles and dust. I missed the waterfall with this storm, but maybe, just maybe, I shall catch the next one with my thirsty roots, and drink deeply to my fill.
But for now, there's the empty river which flows through the garden of dead romances, with winter pruned vines ready for frost and snow, the road of the stars, the tannat-dark sky with the polished silver moon, and that is fine and dandy by me. We seek consentual worlds.... one day we will find them. I return to the open road, climbing slowly to my kingdom amidst the clouds, and slowly frost congeals upon my windshield, as I ascend into the sky and snowclad heights overlooking a valley reflecting the moon. You can follow me, if you want. You know my view; take it or leave it, because I'm me. Im dome playong games. If you want me, claim me. You know where to find me; behind the sky, amidst the vines on the mountain smote beneath the silver moon.
Will you be more bones and flesh and history to enrichen this garden of the surreal, your molecules forming chlorophyll and tannins for me to drink in the deep watches of the night, while I stare across the valley, or will you bring your pruners, gloves, posts, and cordons, and bring order to the vineyard of my heart from out of the chaos of improper custodians, and make my fruit shine deep, rich, and fulfilled within the glass? Thus allowing me to stand before my maker, and say, "Drink me, O Lord, for I am ready to be one with you. I am yours."
I walk through the mesquite by moonlight, dodging thorns and intrigue by the edge of a river, hoary with frost and age, carrying the bones of the sea, the children of the sky, and the brothers of fire, worn into cobbles and dust. I missed the waterfall with this storm, but maybe, just maybe, I shall catch the next one with my thirsty roots, and drink deeply to my fill.
But for now, there's the empty river which flows through the garden of dead romances, with winter pruned vines ready for frost and snow, the road of the stars, the tannat-dark sky with the polished silver moon, and that is fine and dandy by me. We seek consentual worlds.... one day we will find them. I return to the open road, climbing slowly to my kingdom amidst the clouds, and slowly frost congeals upon my windshield, as I ascend into the sky and snowclad heights overlooking a valley reflecting the moon. You can follow me, if you want. You know my view; take it or leave it, because I'm me. Im dome playong games. If you want me, claim me. You know where to find me; behind the sky, amidst the vines on the mountain smote beneath the silver moon.