In La
the rush never ends:
The spending goes on
The Brown snuffed
out
land
ish
The white dream
belongs underwater
or in ashes;
Echo park in embers
Silverlake smouldering cinders
all those fearful micro-smiles
just piles on the ground,
unrecognizable to the dollar,
freed from their own
self-induced bondage
The White Dream must end.
I want to be bare nature; streams, fields of grass and small flowers, birds singing beautiful things invisibly and the greater avians commanding the canvass of the firmament
Is there good soil anywhere? my heart is always breaking; the earth is becoming a dump
I dont know how to rise from this sorrow. perhaps find the shattered scattered crystals like in many of those prescient RPG’s—seven stars, seven shards, mana lokas, something always once grand, then broken by some natural happening of Time, and having to be found and gathered together again by the Heroes, each their own crystal or star, Reaching on their own journey toward wholeness/completion/refinement/fulfillment
No time to sit down
No time to be in love
No love to be in,
but the quietude of solitude
There’s a hint of death in being alone
A tap-tapping,
like a cat does with its eyes when it’s waiting for the food.