You’re on this bike highway, this spandex throughway, and it’s like you’re on the Monorail at the Minnesota Zoo, but instead of a monorail, you’re on a bike, you’re on a bridge, surrounded by wooden guardrails, raised above the wildlife, but instead of wildlife, you’re looking at real life, it’s spinning around you, buzzing around you, vibrating within you, dangling it’s Grecian tasseled vines of grapes down to you, opening up before you, orgasming through you, you interlock with the hum, with the wind, with the warmth of the sunlight, the caw of the crow, the song of the cricket, the scream of the cicada, the cry of that cat bird, that monkey with acorns, dancing on your melodies, streaming through your veins, bohemian rhapsody, wobbly bicycle, whale of a time, three city speedway, hurrying to catch the sunshine, learn about Kurt Vonnegut, breaking into Bellevue, crazy as my friend Sylvia, bearded men with glasses, 1920s bonnet hats, red scarlet lipstick, licking bloody popsicles, preaching to the preacher, Eunice in homeland Zambia, Artmesia under my pillow case, Fitzgerald passing gazes, white leather loafers, crème skirts with roses, hips like Johansen, pants like Jonathan’s, hair like Minneapolis, feathers like my gypsy loves, red devil sunnies, like Q and Lisa V, floating on the rail line, bike highway rail line, orgasm throughway, sky splitting auditory plea, horn sounds behind me, telling me to notice, the blood-red life letters, meditating Ginsberg, footsteps all around me, taunting and trying, reaching and dying, no Mr. Preacher, I cross my hands before you, I don’t want to violate you, show some human kindness, waving my hands before you, kiss my fingers through you, reaching all around you, blood gushing by you, lend me your warmth, your unending heat, your man and your meat, the patisserie across the street, you fell in the Seine, when you were only nine, you had a whale of a time, swimming and rhyming, a gypsy of a time, a folky hell of a time, a shady swell of a time, a raindrop-stained time, a very good mime, placed his palms on your spine, and strapped you down in your mind, but it was a hell of a time, a bloody good time, worth a bucket of wine, or a vat full of vines, a pocket of flies, a balloon full of bees, would bring a whale to its knees, so when you got out of the Seine, when you remembered you were ten, you had your first sip from the cup, a slip of a lip on the clay, a little delay, spilled wine on the Seine, on your mother’s dress, it was quite a hairy mess, love, peace, happiness, and understanding, you wish Nick Lowe was your grandpa, you’d sit in a room and have him play, and sing you lullabies, peace lily melodies, poet, country, nation, fictionalizing time, with a sweet, bloody rhyme, a crimson ginger time, a liquid candy crime. And that’s a taste of my mind.
I can’t be stopped. I just go. I only have one mode. On. Always. Vibrate. Constantly. Go. I can’t be stopped. I can’t be stopped. You can’t catch me. I’m in your mind’s eye, in your cherry pie, in your custard, your red leather belt buckle; I’m in your navel, in the dusk light, in the long grass, in your living room, in the clothesline, in the leaves, in the flowers, in the blueberries, hiding, confiding, in the sky, living a dream, every moment’s a cocktail, every second a sun kiss, a remnant of bliss, a pocket of cashews, a penny full of powder, a midnight shower, a morning bath, another pouch of grass, a crescendo in the sanctuary, sanctuary of birds, of whispers of greatness, from the love that was made here, to the words that were read here, the words that were said here, the tunes that were drank here, the quiet that we thanked here, the peace we created, the grace that we needed, the lives almost hated, so to nights that begin here, a quarter from ten here, at the end of our work day, which could end at three, but hey, it’s a hell of a time, a swell of a time, a quarter of lime, with a skull full of tequila rhymes, a bowl full of mice, a happy nest, a wool vest, a waterfall crest, a dog in a coat, a mountain goat, a heavy note, full of the soul that you wrote, a thought you spoke, a Swisser Sweet you smoked, a chord you strummed, a wall you bouldered, a buffalo band, a cat in a dress in a cradle, holding a ladle, reading Hansel and Gretel, with your Icelandic brother, the one whose name is Heather, you should see the paintings he imagines, in his universe’s eye, his cow pie, on the horse, with the saddle, his name is Able, the horse’s is, he doesn’t talk but he’s a good and decent horse, a noble horse, he’s a King of Horses, well he’s white anyway, and in his stable is a mouse hole, where beneath lies a mouse world, run on vibrations, run on good thoughts, run on kindness, on brotherhood, on love, on literacy, on art, on Vinyasa, on a holodeck, a make-believe space where thoughts are captured, all of your existence is saved in a box of dreams, you will watch them someday, in the Theatre of Life, where you will see every embarrassing moment, every gasp of ecstasy, every meditation to the sun, every glance of healing light, every composition of your life, a screenshot of your humanity, and we’ll connect to the web of feeling that can be captured in light particles, projected in a holodeck, recreated in your minds eye, in a teleportal wave, a wormhole of nature, budding lime around you, tequila cups, wine saucers, poem bowls, candle memories, cricket melodies, pulling from beneath you, vines wrap around you, sink beneath the permaground, the moss, the cabbage grass, the nettles, the dirt, sink below, to where you belong, dragonfly my brother, visitor from home, pauses to wave hello, looks me in my minds eye, through his crystals of time, and the curtain is called back, it’s time for a break, a fifteen-minute intermission, to discuss the production that is your life; you stand; you go; on the bird sanctuary bike highway; off you go, rolling dough in stanzas, waiting for a Panda, waiting for a tremor, waiting for a some thing, off you go, swept below, I’ll throw you a rope, a limb of life; climb up my friend, climb up and see this light.