Anyway, Waterfall...

#oldpostbeatpoem #odetothedreamer Stuck on the last page of the poetry book blues, BB king died the other day and Nuthin new to be news but news is a trap, Now is like my kids today while autumn Not yet falling to winters crystal sunlight and the some leaves still clinging, Like how now is too beautiful to express And a violence in splashing too many rocks into a side of the forrest walk wishing pond, so small and graceful it could be for fairies, now is I can’t tell you what they wished for nor what they’re dreaming of now in peace spacesuit breathings beatitude, now thinking my adult attitude over complex, rememories of why I had to leave the poetry gig early and caught all Lego piece light words for moth switch right anyway upon just the right metaphor, two Hindu men that day pointing to my aum badge and saying things like O that’s the why of the world! The fork of the river! and yes it had a beautiful longer version anyway and the beautiful people were too painfully curved into bad capitalistic machines not toys made of the parking metre, yet, why is always too beautiful for this old tree stone from the hills… all the meanings left behind I can’t remember, for now is a silent deep well that the moon leaves in the sun, especially when that girl who I thought connect realizes I’m gone a leap of the last verb, And cockatoos are some of the most playful birds for no reason, spirals for any no reason there on facebook in no one’s everyone, simple wondering what stuck together songs and stories gunna build themselves tomorrow outta ordinary, what excuses for air currents swirl on end-of-light shadow ball wall outta memes and themes such as Whitman randomly poking his face out of a frame on my table and with lifted bushy eyebrow, telling me; “why yes son Maya is the dreamer and Heidegger is a hydrogen seashell left upon a powerline on Brunswick rooftop near a waterfall, but you knew that didn’t you?” and yes its all gunna collapse when ink pin steps forth and drops anyway, in the mean time I finally lit my writers candle in my darkness and am breathing, so look; the unicorn herds run across the blue grass sky, the naked men and women who ride them never needed to wear clothes their whole lives and the cashless catchless knowing of who does what in their society, and the don’t worry, now is the hazy ‘ol green not-too-real ground in fuzzy smile, a centre up that thinks it’s all too perfect to anyhow, and so spaceships with Elizabethean bathtubs fly by…