Hello eager beavers, it's been some times since I've put a prose poem on the blog beast, so no time like the present. And how are you doing? Living it up? I had a dream last night where on million bugs flooded into a two story house I was living in with my parents. It was kind of like that scene from The Craft. So I'm doing good too. Wink!
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Just to leave off stopping for now. We can’t be hurt and we are vagrants. Zero sleep. Destroy every last little thing that crawls in your carpet, touches your windshield, flares in your voice. Completion was never the point. Illusion rests in time and order and if you would dance you could be greater than god. Greater than the heathen and pagan and christian buddhist atheist chant. We are god words and simple and crude. And being born is like stealing. Like cheating. And being now, we are the greatest of inspirations. Past future tense and leather. Take away all the pain of your moments then consume it. Bite your own teeth. It is simple and overly redundant. We need it. Create every breath you hold. Give it freely. Don’t know but care, don’t care but know, haunt the hills, haunt the snow, haunt the sun and haunt the globe. We are the truth written in stone or rock. If your hair wasn’t colored red than it would be blonde. My eyes, if not green, would be black.