wines, music, poetry, cigars, photographs, vacuuming

I do not remember where I learned to dip cigars into the wine of blue moonlight

nor how a lens shutter enters my dreams of roaring rapids

the voice

through the rapids, gurgle and bubble if you must
through the rapids, gurgle and bubble if you must
be soft and gentle as water

from the song of your first screams
they shall write a melody,

it
will
be
as
your
name,

sung to call you home
sung to call you home

a moment to watch apples fall from trees that do not hit the ground

the white paint clothes his dark skin

propoganda for the new age

I am inadequate for marxist theory, like an alien out of phase of the continuum

the way film and paper are blind to rainbows
the way film and paper are blind to rainbows

and burros graze mountaintops

and illiterate writers have no context for names

the blades of grass will sing my song

and I will remember the taste of blue moonlight that coats my tongue

gray