Indigo Cut Shuffle. . .

Flute melancholia, the passing back
down of something vaguely familiar.
The Beats must've had a clickety
typrewriter frenzy unrolling before them.
Each moment begins again
and the folded paper in my pocket
becomes obselete.
More words, beautiful words!
Metaphorical journeys of the unseen heart.
Oh blog, what a silly, functional word you are.
Hold my hand and let's dance
around the golden minarets.
Pure Disney fantasies.
Sheet upon sheet of magic lightning
glistening with unbearable dew.
Fold your hands upon corduroy'd knee
and I'll shoot you in the head.
Don't quack your mindless politic at me.
Indigo cut shuffle...

A band of fluid Zimbabweans at hotdog corner
circled by tight jeaned westerners.
Loose rhythms and smiling faces
as Syd watches from the roof.
Original singing, a healthy heartfelt
plea to the gods for peace.
Each one moving with his own inspiration.
They act out the ancient story
of man and woman..
Chop dissolve to the ruby red
corridors of my own land.

Thinking is a narcotic
-the words of another.
I am ready to build a castle of verse.
On the edge of the dream
I pull back and let my arrow fly
into the soul of a passing onlooker.
Electric cardinals, beasts of desire,
a conglomeration of wandering angels.
We must fall now
if but for a moment
into that illumined cavern.
Speak softly for they are far behind. . .
The tincture tingles beneath the tongue.
Sublingual murmurings,
clouds breathe behind the eyes.
Music enters your ears.
Into what? Into air, into thin air.
Perpetual beating of the mind,
it rises and revolves again,
from feet to scalp a million doors,
all open.
But inevitably we must fall again.
Back to the world of banalities.
Few know the true power of words.