stripped, strapped, and stripped again, for the fin in dory’s story of finding a new sun. fighting on through that burning day, peeled to the mattress like solvent glue for you, no you, no that other girl over there…just lolly-gagging in the effervescent wholly holy fight for my soul. struggling to maintain a direction or relationship to save my life. just a single lonely sailor drifting out across the sea to be. crying for my one to be. back to being stripped and dipped again in the molasses of sticky bureaucracy of and for my soul. i find a sober mind like pin-prick injustices though my being,… seeing the true light of being teething or a loose knot sandwich. for whether or not I am of my own accord will make the difference in being. seeing the chattering clattering souls delve in and out of the local jails impales my spirit with shit so stunk it rots corpses like a 1,000 year old whiskey. to see this plan for righteous adventankerous witherdoings i hold true to what i know. the snow falling like fresh angel powder. the heat of the summer boiling the lakes and ponds to bombs of passionate kisses and wishes from puppies and kitties. stalling yet stalling for the falling of loves inner light in the fight to battle rattle the true core of what we implore as love-making. the sight saddled breath left in the hole of the burning womprats nest. the holding and bestowing of spirit to the dearest. making love in a sweet sticky bath of pheromonal and hormonal wonder. and me, found alone un-stoned at least but with a beast of burden so cacophonally confounding it hurts my mind.
