Pine cones

life stories that will change your life. free response short write.

meeting pilgrims with strange familiar markings

the same scrapes on the knuckles from scuffles

they study with an annoying overemphasis on format and not the content of ideas. 

we slouch down and gather into a collective sigh when she is gone

————

Dark blue eyes, I’ve got no where to go. The symptoms are irregular and unclear. They subside when the tide is high enough. Rocks are smoothed out one tiny fraction in an endless cycle. We are on the plateau and we are spinning. Zero gravity down the storytelling heights. Take me there to the quiet space. Away from bright hazard lights sending lightning streak vibrations. These arms are anchors. We are pulling our teeth out for this. This miserable decision to lean against a brittle thin wall. Collapse of bricks, barrage down from swollen drain pipes above. I can conjure up animal shapes in the clouds and convey them into something abstract and sensible, something opened up in a relaxing manner and straightening up when the worried mother comes out to join with blankets and good whiskey under the stars, they drain their wisdom down onto us and we are shrunk to bacteria, make no mistake that ever beautiful… (weird fishes like news articles on apartment toilets exploding and injuring inhabitants). The cloud coverage will dissipate into ruinous defeat. We were there yelling like maniacs in a crowd of savage, taunting enemies. Armed with badges of honor and plastic cups of coors on draft, spitting out sunflower seeds like an activity domain of body and mind, a controlled exploration of all options. Music invading the ears like soft explosions, volcano eruptions that nobody notices with their personal butlers and decibel distraction eliminators installed onto their eyelids as a security measures. 

Etcetera, etcetera

explore each distraction and avert focus onto moving shapes and dark contoured images, looking for monsters crawling in that dark mystery, shades and hearing impairment, eyes losing luster when paranoid, otherwise pupils remain enormous due to the raw emotion conveyed in each intimate moment, shared under the covers  like magic carpets or floating tapestries dangling out of hotel windows, the tour bus has toppled onto its side and the vacationers run with cameras and bouquets in their hands, free of silken linen skies, perpetual motion, long deep talks, good conversation, story telling and all kinds of recollection. Bill Stout. Legends of fighters. Bike route. Three jobs. Work for the adventurous spirit. Study fragments of the language prior to leaving the country for good. All of the greatest genius are bilingual. It is a grand goal. At least in a minor way to hear the words spoken perpetually. The right vowel sounds and hand gestures. Burning, aching fingers. Cry for help. 

 

 

 

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