The Melancholy of Stevie Keys

In the shade of a corner, their sitting down with his eighty eights...fingers sliding and gliding all down the ivory cost. the neck of a sweet guitar lying in the background. the leaves of the great rely on the money. voice of raspy, heart of gold. his body sold to the orbit of a full moon blasted back by the muted math of the piano. "don't cry, you can rely on me honey..." and i fall ever so miserably in love with the boy singing soft.

my main man. my Maine, man. nobody told him that his plus sized, Sunday to Monday to calendar. breaking free of the weekends. making sleep with his lady friends. didn't anybody tell him that the phone was off the hook? making numerous mistakes as to receive all sorts of dirty looks. and rotten.

but my love is up for Stevie Keys, his singing makes me week in the knees. the kind of boy i'd blow kisses to. the kind of kid I'd write in my blog about.

Generative Poetry

My mind's eye. My third. Wait, you mean my forehead?

Water cascading down the falls like a brick thrown from the roof of your house. It was this kind of murky green up top, and this flowing puff of clouds made by water down towards the bottom. And even the froth seem to transcend from liquid state, as this net above the creek's surface. Making it's arms wrap tight around the beauty of water. In the shady spots were speckles of misty rainy flaky droplets, soaking up my sneakers, and warming up my heart.

I sat and stared at this waterfall for what seemed like an hour, just sitting there, breathing it in. Loving it in. And you know, as I'm sitting there seeing this glow, watching this flow, feeling this strong blow of physical and emotional uplifting; i started to hear something too. I always heard that the sound of moving water has a message. That if you focus on the harmonies, you'll hear what you've been longing for. Like the fucking Cry of Shambalah, this melodious humanoid type reverberation through the bowls of Mother Nature and all her choirs.

And now I'm writing it down, trying to play it out. She must have been playing a 32 string with one darbuka and another ancient domback. Instruments I'll never find. But when i get back there, I want to learn the words, the notes, the pitches. When I get back there Momma, I'm planning on singing along with you. That fucking Cry of Shambalah, baby. Opening the gates for the dakini in modest return and ever flowing respect. Just like the waterfall, ever flowing respect.

refered by estelle getty

don't really read the hype of the mainstream. don't really feed the media daydreams. don't really plant seeds for that whole thing about hate mongering. don't really deem guilt upon those who are undeserving.

do read the paper on a Sunday to Sunday basis. do bead the gems out over hemp to make a necklace. do plead with God, but I've never really talked with Jesus. do seem to wake up early, just for breakfast.

and in my sleep i get these wild dreams. i can't imagine what they mean. so many flashy faces. so many familiar places.

she was sliding down a slope on a dolly, arms around me, telling me she's sorry, telling me she loved me.



actually in that same dream, Cosmo Kramer went into A-Plus to buy me cigarettes.