6.27.2009 An endeavor undone; so much is to be done. A lost at soul (soulless we drive), to sea he sails and far out he is begone. So she warns me, "never write about it again".
A turbulence shakes me, rattles a couple thoughts right out of my mind and to the actual floor they tumble. Furiously I recall a dream of myself searching under the crowded seat of an airplane (strangely straight over the sea) where nothing is found but a blistering bite mark on the pincer of my hand.
I recall the oil stains on the water to the East, a frustrated sebaceous gland Mother Earth is fighting with (I agree to feel the less fortunate "t-zone", for the name I myself and again the difficult virtue both share.) Like crepe paper the ocean ripples out to cellulite-full cumulus where her under arms reveal unshaved-ness ( as lovely as those who treasure her most) and I, a bird in a tin watch her scrupulously from my vantage point.
Likewise I do to the saplings when soil-bound; a vision of height precedes me as a dreamed allusion.
Moldy and full of puss! Her clouds billow beneath me, grimaces ensue; a cringe is initiated between saplings. To where finally a lone (lost) fish dangles before the allow beak.
The cabin darkens, throats become pitted olives at the bases of bellies; We circle, arch, descend, and then ensnare. The galley quivers as the insatiable captain rears for another. At the nose the entrapped are teased (played to entertain a powerful complex) and carted through the belly, unpitted we digest them as ravenously as fear will allow. Cellulite grows in the honey combs of our thighs.
A sinking sedative heavies lids enough to undo any damage and the last memory lingers as a bracelette of desert turquoise unraveled, blown apart across the hillside.
