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greggb

Don't forget your precious.

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Another experiment with stream of consciousness and spoken word.

 

 

Count the reasons, yes I can,
count them all on one left hand,
I can count them all the way to zero.

Sometimes it's the absence, 
of what I can't be sure,
causing me to wonder
if I'm knocking on the right door.
If I'm standing on the right street,
and more,
if I'm in the proper universe.

A bad reason would be welcome at this point.
Because even that contains reason, 
if only a couple of nano unit's worth. 

If I were being honest,
I'd tell you straight-up,
that now a nervous pic is all I see.
Complete and utter stranger, 
one most clearly feminine,
staring in an odd and troubling way.

And room to room the drone moves,
streaming back the footage 
of life as we have known it until now.
Existence in this Wild-West hotel.

Exiled to a backward time,
where we must spend each day,
and know our lives,
our real lives,
only by our dreams at night.

Sometimes we return; 
but rarely we remember.
Only during poker games,
and drunken barroom brawls,
do bits and pieces 
occupy our minds.

Remind us of a future time.
A world imbued with color,
without those static lines,
whatever they're worth...

And now the chainless door,
and waiting on the other side,
a scene that seems to have quite high potential.
Many plants, growing high,
poster seedlings of that more pure era.

And even when that pseudo-canine
called on by his instincts;
gratuitously coded in his brain.
Even then does he obey,
expels the air in rhythmic bursts
and adds his heart and soul
throughout the day.

And the footsteps from above,
the never-rhythmic thuds,
the always soulful, artist-filled expression,
of ordinary life.
Just another day.  
Another vastly different day,
a lost and faceless uncle of the others.

Jump a line ahead,
skip a couple rounds,
and notice what you'll smell there,
rising from the ground.
The grass, so freshly cut,
is greener.  
Ah, the worn-out proverb.
And the fumes from the mower,
still linger.
Gasoline, or what remains.

But still a lovely sight.
You could see yourself there every night.
Sipping whiskey and water,
or any drink you please.
Knowing you can sleep it off,
to a soothing breeze,
in the doubtful case 
that you have too many.

In the more likely event
that your life goes to Hell,
because it's just a hop away,
and some evil looking kid 
is right behind you,
armed with a shocker,
ready to plant it 
right where you sit.

And your eyes water
even at the thought
of the pain you will feel
right behind your eyes.
Right there in your front cerebral cortex.

Oh, the pain in your brain,
coming from the strain,
and the refusal of that automatic creature
to restrain herself.
To refrain from her OCD-like behavior.

And then the storm moves in,
but it's a living one!
It's a break in the boredom!
It's a drug for your senses.
And alas you'll be happy when it's gone.
And it will be, here before too long.
And your life will go on,
if that's what you should call it.

So minimize the window,
put the laptop down,
toss the covers off,
turn yourself around,
and reach.
Reach for your precious.
Put your hands on your precious,
but be careful with it.
Bring your precious to your chest,
and wave goodbye to me.  

Bye bye, you say, 
gesticulating sadly.
Bye bye, I say,
annunciating gladly.

Perhaps you think my precious 
is preciouser than yours?
I don't think so.
I think the problem is
you haven't put your 
precious to your lips yet.

Do that. and feel your precious 
reach its full potential.

Go on, and do that.

And let's be done with this tired topic:
of your precious, and mine.  
Both of them are fine.

The only other thing
that requires discussion 
at this very moment,
is the blind.
That thing whose soul purpose
is to shelter me,
keep me from the sunshine.

Not that I would smoke or flame,
if a photon hit me;
not that it would cause me any pain,
the sunshine, that is.

My fear is that a ray might light
upon the words I write,
and have a more vampire-like
effect,
causing them great fright,
making them take flight,
and leave the piece I'm writing
an absolute wreck.

So, I'd appreciate it if you'd
pull the blind.  And straighten
out the edges there, so
some wise ray of sunshine
isn't tempted to sneak in.

And thank you,  I appreciate that.
And I must let you go,
and you must me too,
let me go that is,
but don't forget your precious! 
 

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Are you a reincarnation of Jack Kerouac? More bongos

 

I like this...thanks for sharing JackKerouacandtheBeatGeneration.jpg.e1fda2d1064383c04db4f94a5be5c2f0.jpg

 

 

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