I have felt the ebb and flow of this life, caresses and tides, spiraling through my body, twisting and turning me into unraveling flows of energy
Languid, formless, meandering,
I circle and whirl and whisk, rushing, slowing, losing my breath, yet never dying away
I flow to no cardinal in particular, but every pebble, every current, every shore I kiss, is where I was meant to be all along, sweeping waves of my own quiet resolve, bringing with me granules of earth and washing away again...
Beneath the ashes of twilight and the bodice of nature and symphony bees of the antiseptic rose swooning petal expressions with the scented soul as the soft winds blow through the gills of the trees with the moon rising over the wheelwright and the wooden hypnotic silence whispering inuendoes swaying to the moon with shadows of butterflies as nature holds onto the knees of Autumn listening to the crickets do-si-do, and "Yippee-ki-yay"
My granny had said that I was a particular child. How I spent too much time questioning all of the unreasonable things. That I was tiresome to her, when she'd take me to church, and I wouldn't sit still while listening to the nonsense of some mortal man on a stage.
Because I could talk to God anytime, without that interpreter giving me his own version. I'd tell granny, God doesn't see it that way. She'd just shush me, sometimes handing me a half-stick of gum to occupy my time.
Conniving with crickets, wearing raincoats toggled up with the brightest buttons of browns and reds an earthy feel that gently tread with the winds of nature's remedies that cling to the vines reflecting on the dew brings with it the rains of September to inspire the greening of the symphonies beneath the Grandaddy Pines sounding as if accordions on a scale of dawn to five conniving with crickets, wearing raincoats of a twilight's tame vista
Near the old docks in Genoa where old dwellings stand close together making streets narrow and families live is lived rather noisily, where women hang laundry to dry on small terraces or on window ledges. Sometimes when several street merges, the open space is called a plaza, where fruit seller, tobacconist, and cafe where men sit and smoke, drink red wine, and argue about politics, in a gruff manner. When the crew on his ship took a taxi up to Gramsci Street to seek the bright light, he walked to his cafe, lit a cigarette drank good wine, ate bologna or ricotta or...