RSS SPIRIT

A baby fusses, grabs mamma's finger.
Lovers muss in corner seat at another stop we linger.
A rough boy texts, loud girls cuddle.
Green glass straight track shoots evening muddle.

To the corner she rolled carted by relation,
not born here, an old world confabulation.
Not at her daughters or granddaughters I smile,
but crane my neck toward her with hopes that I rile.
And she did smile back, sort of, but then they were gone.
The gaggle rolled past across a city lawn.

So I go and return from my paper sending chore,
got caught in one block, then another, what a bore.
I was walking down a strange street, head down, I heard a cough.
It was the lady, on a porch, a cold blow my head did boff.

She waved at me vigorously.
I waved back jubilantly.
I know this is mere superstition of course,
but I knew I was at a blessing's source.
Upon a cool grotto and calm spring I wished
for that which this lady has previously fished.

So I got a wish thank god, it came right on time.
Frankly it felt as sweet as fresh pie with key lime.
I walked home and wondered: if the lady still had her sanity,
did she bless me for me or because I had flattered her vanity?

You swallow me every night.
I follow you in and evacuate light.
Exhausted I hand you a hollow of cares.
Lost we scare light like eviscerating bears.

Blanched sky enfolds bleached copper spires.
Birds rush past fluttering Aspen trees,
hop over old man in stern morning sun shaking keys.
Leaves twitter, birds screech, the crunch of car tires.

A torrent of honeydew I bequeath to you,
an everflowing lava of spasm.
I spurt and drool upon you sweet boo,
together we fire entreaty's phantasm.

The funnel inside the whirlabout of the prosaic and profane is the sacred. It is where us humans and nature rub noses and know it is good.

-A quiet treeline at dusk philsophy.

What is more dangerous than an old man with delusions of grandeur? Give him the key to the gun shed.

#