just thinking of cruising wild-haired, headed out West to Bog knows where, shirtless and unafraid of my naked tanned skin
not aware and the least worried of all outer, inner, make-believe things. Too often now my fingers feel tempted to pinch the skin other than their own, down below and around them, to gauge something un-gaugeable (as it figures) and make me frown and fret. I believe in and feel an undiscovered West, still and always, my only honest escape from measurement, from death and well, what else is there to fear?
That beautiful music will be playing. Songs about beasts. To remind me of my native days full of fake Southeastern Indian tattoos and stickers that I would put on my body and letters, sealed-with-a-feather, fake and plastic like the rest. Oh mm it even sounds delicious from way away in the future. Instead of leaving my mind in the past I rather like having it here in front of me so I can play with it and poke at it. I always want to see everything.
I like to play-pretend that the little blond, curly-haired girl in pictures that I used to be is only asleep in the very next room. She, like me, always infatuated with the color of her bloody knees - how that pale white-yellow showed through the brown of the blood!
Only sometimes I remember certain forgotten things, maybe that I never knew I knew. But it always feels good. The past reveals itself in fragments; I see a grasshopper eating a tiger lily and think of a stick bug on white paneling, the wind blows hair in my face and I can see a painting of my grandfather with his Driggs Skylark, a little boy squints at me or because of the sun and my skin is wet and it is night
below sea level,