green is never morbid…

My mother used to call me the little tug boat… She said so you pull the weight of the whirls.
I am  feeling a bit morbid these days, not sure which way to go.  There is always something in that giant cargo i wish to help pull?  In the case of this blog, looking back it was freedom. That giant river boat. Proud Mary?

I believe thru squeezing squeeze out the sponge.  Play first the keys dotted with jade spores of mold, bellowing dust.  Digesting Florentine debauchery, squeaks and howls. My mind leaks with puzzles filling it’s curious sponge and the maze, the labyrinth reveals words which awaited my vowels or is it spontaneous vows of absurdity?  The ivory keys of the accordion picked up by the hands of only a short time, to play what seemed imaginary and impossible. We searched for the emerald tablet. We searched for freedom.  The last time I saw and felt the soft green of little white lilly bells scenting my toes with green wisps and flowers strewn was at Chiesa di Dante.  I had the faith of mountains then. Now I pray that mountains of gold, of angels, of rubies and salt pray grow little flowers again. Bring back hope that this is not merely a world of  charcoal smoot and scraping tapping fingers stealing.  It takes just as much time to create as it does to steal all the beauty in this world. Jupiter the largest planet. Mick Jagger is dancing in his magenta suit screaming he is the miracle worker as I board the train for Lucca. Who stole all the sunshine? Why when it takes just as long to kiss the sky as it does to drown a sapphire. Who is that Mother whom never told you that you could fly? Who are those greasy fingers full of fossilized embers writing death grafitti in the sky?  I must pay the piper, I must feed the carrion for I was born from an explosion of too much love my Mother told me.  My father looked out the window all the while my mother carried me and said he saw so many beautiful birds. Yellow from Dorian Grey no you must not. But Red Robins and blue birds and emerald peacock feathers eyes.  I was no accident she assured me as she said that all her life I lived in the corners of every room like an angel to protect her and she knew right away that it was me whom would be born. So, i must pay for all those children whom no one has loved by my tears today.  My mother cried when I came to NY and she said, please don’t let anyone change you.  I let your hair always grow wild.  I never raised you to be a chi hua hua or somebodies pet.  She would say put on long eyelashes and wink at all the flowers and sing Anita O day songs in Greenwich Village.   OR else at least be Mona Lisa’s poodle if you must be a pet.  She would never have cared if I were gay or if I wanted to be lady whom took silk from those sad silkworms whom never got to fly. She said we fly in those kimonos, we fly to the caves of Dun Huang.   People despise the freedom my parents gave me so I shall lock myself here inside of a museum assemblage awaiting, waiting for the sun.

Did he find it in death?  Are butterflies truly the souls of ballerinas or are they those of strident, stalwart, bulldogs and lions with far too much pride.  I used to tell him that my Father always told me “Pride comes before the fall”  I am that violet ostrich plume floating in the sky dusting the meteorite showers of jaded dreams. I am that feather dipping into blood.  Dragonflies never surrender to mediocrity as the dandelion particles become butterflies.  Put your lips together and blow. Make a wish. Wish for a world where is not easier to die than to be free in this world of impositions and rocking chair champions whom sit on their porches and judge you, condemn you.  I believe he died so as not to surrender to this morbid non-alchemical world where green faded from a jade green to blue.

I can only write nonsense today, I can only write in braille made of little jeweled tears. Now it is I whom must venture out of Noah’s Ark or out of Sanuki, Kabuki or the cave where the Sun is hiding of Amaterasu.

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