my thoughts never connect//but here you are
if brautigan, a lamp, and five pounds of tobacco had a baby,
and that baby took a drop of acid and transformed into a poem and traveled back in time to nineteen ninety six,
and moved next door to a baseball field,
i am fairly certain that poem would be about plums.
oooooh plump plums plummeting down
plumbing mountains
your juice taste leaving smiles in my cheeks
—eating plums plum fiction my quarter plum royale—
you’ll be a woman, too.
kind of how i feel today,
as in—
looped dizzy off of free fall spells
last nights dishwashing got me all yeoman and
magenta ski sunset sky
feeling like my few nights ago spell with wanting a final word, a final draw of the line
out of the gray and into the black or white is—
want/need to take a breather, keep myself busy and working or swimming in the ocean. i mean am keeping myself busy, and working, and spending 8 hour days in a studio moving my body and growing bruises, and it’s killing me slowly in an okay kind of day, but i’m not exactly, well, finding the right words to say.
more farming,
More Plums, and leftovers from my niece’s birthday party, and collected two eggs this morning from lashonda with the iridescent feathers, and then a big fat bed sleep.
GOD BLESS SUNDAYS.
and please i pray for one more july thunderstorm, there’s really nothing in the world better than a big fat crackling thunder electricity across the clouds over mountains, pebbles dropping on the roof sound
