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 Author: FarmDrifter
PostPosted: Sat Jul 25, 2015 10:13 am 
let's be honest
i've been drifting
finding god is more like
through what's not it
for what is it
i sort it into piles-
file holy books as bullshit for a while -
and put all the miles between us under faith in our existence
as greyhounds race into the distance
rear view mirrors shrinking pigeons

And every time i swear it off
i swear it comes back with the tide's pull
the cut stem blooms back threefold
and we'd like to think our meetings
coincide with lunar cycles
I saw it clearly with my eyes closed
listened closer
as the man spoke over motorcycles
speech bubbled by the spliff smoke
this cat was not the devil
despite the flames superimposed on the panes of his spectacles,
accenting his oration,
"They took away the vegetation,
broke it down to a molecule."
and rainbows of light bent by the window
stripe these hardwood halls i stroll,
which memory or ghosts patrol,
where heaven is a feeling
something like being resigned to this,
reluctantly accepting healing
and all the cosmic scientists are probing with cold instruments
and if it turns out the cathedrals were a cult's device for thought control
and Jesus was invented
i still think those who follow in his footsteps soon will meet him,
led across the water on a bridge of light reflecting off it,
narrowing towards a vanishing point,
A place they heard about called Eden,
eternally approaching zero, a period to end a life sentence, a theoretical conclusion

You lose faith in your Pagan book
I try to start believing
We reach a higher altitude,
your nose commences bleeding
Going somewhere's just another name for leaving,
and all time overlapping,
like the maps of Ohio all over the walls,
with the layers of paint ever peeling (revealing)
in my room in that farmhouse in Cleveland
Where even after you were gone,
my sheets smelt like your armpits,
and the air like burnt sulfur and Tibetan incense
In a dream your underwear's still on my floor,
waiting for your curves to fill them.

And i think of you in pictures,
the color spectrum playing in the oils of your skin,
and mid-air jumping in my arms that Halloween on Orcas,
trembling drunk for me in Portland,
nude except for rose petals,
that morning on my college buddy's bedroom floor in Boston,
captured in a photograph i glued inside a music box,
filled with amethyst and China jade,
incense sticks and spanish phrase,
you used to say Ayudame,
i watched you from the fire escape
back before the existential crisis came,
hung over a balcony,
admitting finally i don't believe that you control the rain
(except for maybe in my brain)

And ever since the day i came to associate ego with falsehood
there's been no telling who we are
In a city with no stars
i blend in with old music from a jukebox,
which blends in turn with passing cars
sitting on a bench outside a bar i never drank in,
In this trip i walk through dreamscapes,
Van Goghs and DeChurichos,
past the Sleepy's where we stopped and got philosophy
out of a mattress salesman
who never sold us shit because we never had intentions,
of sleeping anywhere that wasn't transient,
in vans at rest stops, and air mattresses,
RVs and couches we would surf on,
the couch in cambridge that i'd call you from each morning,
just to hear you come out of a dream...
through the static of the space between
you'd tell me things that seemed truths,
i wished i could believe you,
as much as i believed you knew these things i couldn't seem to,
or which i'd been estranged from,

I'd start to think the end's begun,
when midnight busdrivers would look like nuns,
I studied St Teresa,
and found myself beneath the branch from which
the tied-together shoes were strung
and found myself forgetting the words to Hallelujah
when i tried to sing it to ya
at that bustop in a blizzard
that winter when thetrains were shut down
by negative temperatures,
and negative outlooks,
and you looked up asking why you came to see me,
and saw the word's "for love" across the street coincidentally

I can still still feel the waves that rippled out from your shiver
And I think of you in pictures
and when your out of touch guitar strings callous up my fingers
I was warm when the sun sealed the crack in my window
in a soft Ohio lighting,
dustclouds rose from my bootprints,
at dusk when i wrestled with the old fire hydrant,
the one that watered all our plants,
brick crumbled in my hand,
I was meat for mosquitoes,
the Rust belt fit me like a Jimi Hendrix headband
Cleveland melts into my bloodstream,
and paranoia had me thinking all the East side wants to kill me,
when we'd walk downn Superior,
Chaos is interior,
i felt all i was doing was running from something,
i thought you might stop all the questions from coming,
like what does a buddhist say of cognitive dissonance?
and what more must i witness?
Rivers of citrus?
till i believe in the dream that eternity is this?

The sky lit up orange,
with gunshots, with thunder,
the view framed in my mind is always windowsillascyben,
a cross upon a rooftop you could see to downtown from,
and my hummingbird, the Sleepyheaded Queen of Dandelions,
I think of you in pictures
you're playing with the baby goats,
a baby birdcomes back to life and flies out of your cupped hands,
you place a dead hawk in a hollowed out tree back in Washington,

and my mood swings like deadweight hanging
finding love is more like changing
from a doctrine to a feeling
let the rain be rain now
let's start healing

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