Stringing words together with little rhyme and less reason, just flowing with the slipstream, getting tossed about by the hidden nuggets underneath the swirling currents, now wouldn’t we have a time? In the humble days of February, balanced between start and end, at the heart of the month, all I see is a sea of red, an ocean of calamine lotion, a salve for some amorous itch.
How does that tidal wave grow? Mercy at ruby fingertips, patience with a virtuous twist, a vice on twitchy impulse, the syncopated rhythm driving me steadily onwards, eyes blinded by the rushing liquid, ears blunted with the pressing water. All I can rely on is the probing touch of my splayed out limbs.
I’m starfish somersaulting, a spinning blob of barely held together protein, sailing through this siren studded archipelago, each one trilling their alluring songs, and I can’t help but listen even as I speed towards a hard landing on one of those rocky shores.
And when the sea recedes, when the strong winds dry me leather, this heartland troubadour will lullaby my stagnant thoughts, with words like fortune telling bones tossed carelessly on the sand. Now, how does that feel?
spiral scratch
that’s all it took .. . { gram parsons, gp }
how long has this been going on? .. . { ella fitzgerald, ella sings gershwin }
venus .. . { television, marquee moon }
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