That I Would Be Good

There is no containment of emotion

A journey looming 

Epic time: an epopeya

On a pedal

But no longer repeating myself 

Born to bloom

There are ripples and jiggles 

In the stomach it's all wiggles

A route undiscovered 

The Old Continet at night in a tent

Will I be robbed? 

Will I be attacked? 

Will I be run over by a truck? 

Life as it happens 

A new project into the unexpected 

The risk of testing the body

Of elevating a commitment

Of taking on the challenge of celebrating 30

 

How do you raise knowledge of what thirty means? 

How do you capture the craft of living three decades? 

Of the evolution of sounds heard and of friendships felt? 

Of love never felt and the void of no drawer sharing space?

How do you account for the primary makers of you who have dissipated? 

How do you thanks the ones who remain? 

It rocks like thirty

It smells like thirty 

How do you do single out three learnings? 

How do you allow yourself to more love making? 

How do you pause to claim that what you are is what you want? 

A virgin? Always 

A guru? No longer 

A rocker? Yes please

What 30 accounts is just rapid living 

Growth into own for many and for most of us decoupling

Of what we once were and what we now are 

We are young 

We are stronger 

I want a broken heart 

Known present 

I want to craft a master piece 

30 for 30

He Got Milk

In the run of the mill, and the mill of the run, she got milk. She ran, so fast, so furious, she got to the end. We clapped, in hats and whiskers, in joy, in our territory. It was our own, very own, golden medal winner. Shall not! Shall not ever! Shan't! Shan't not! Makes no sense? Well we are a pluralist society go winners and of races. Nothing becomes without us placing the path for it. 

And that, child, is precisely the issue that disrupts it all. That you take the path, not shape it, that you lets others decide, not decide, that your life happens for you, you do not design upfront. So qualm the shall. And stop the shan't. Here. Tonight. Decisive. Life planes. In three landing strips. And all got you to choose. Mega choice. Just make it.

How Things Go Down

Talking point black, argumenting matter of fact. Listening intently. At a corner below willow trees hanging of street lamb posts, preserved, with hanging plant pots, watered at 11am, daily, by the council, with our taxes. There standing. Stoic. Serious. Never had a conversation felt more relevant, a decision more pressing, and connection to the moment more direct. And in sudden, deep in the mili-second, of the hundreds that exist within a minute, of the sighs that go often unnoticed, deep in there, way deep, a man came rushing from the unnoticed corner. Pointing. Blushing. Aroused. Excited. Confounded. Dirty. He walks out and grabs our two arms and finishes off that point in time that felt so defining, so relevant, so ego-cusping. And he spins out arms and pulls, and pulls. Never have we trusted adults to touch us. Much less strangers to lead us by the arm. But he is incessant. And he cannot talk nor hear. So we follow. Like dogs. Like cattle. And we near a Mews street. Where trash is everywhere. Paper, white paper, and plastic. Nothing organic. A printer has exploited everywhere. And a whirlwind of white is everywhere. And as we get pulled we approach. A white pig awaits. He is smoking a gun. And he speaks. And he says to me and him: never ride high on an argument, you will oink.