flip-book reanimation

My songs intend to be heart-pointed arrows but have become the muse of a stilt-waking circus juggler, wearing checkered pants and grin painted on his face.
My art is learning college words yet forgetting how to conjugate itself.
My kinetic moonwalking skills are hybernating.
My listening power is fierce.
My seedgrow technique is leveling up.

silverback gorrila vs. 300 molly ringwalds

I selfishly fantasize about having that moment....that something else. And i want this moment to occur in broad daylight, among the regular public, blossoming before them in all its splendor. I utterly CRAVE.....this moment and I want it thrust forth like a turbo-climactic denouement in a favorite all-time movie type moment. Yes, I can be singing at the top of my lungs and smiling at the same time throughout the whole number (if that's even possible). I can also be dancing upon a rooftop, parading around in a sharp tuxedo, or even twirling around a cane like it was a baton. I don't really need a half-a-million dollar camera to zoom in on me. But I do need people to join in on whatever the fuck it is i'm doing, and I would love love love it to be synchronized in such a fashion, that passersbye do point-and-awe when we flood the streets. I want it to be the way Sally moaned her brains out in that diner during lunch. Fuck man, maybe i'm just aching to scream at something and scare the living shit out of it. I'm not sure.

a leather briefcase at the trainstation

longing for the sycamore
and sap upon my brow
das maiden voyage
of supernovas,
and celestial playgrounds,
polaris in my see-saw
forth imagination binge,
like baron and duchess banquet platter
or a subterfuge
sypher my completeness
and spray it upon
your favorite brick
find everything to be found
in nothing that is missed
drums striking dervishly
a matador and his hat
is the gentleman and his pipe
on the trail of matters of fact