The Alltime Saloon

We were standing on the corner, Castle and Oak, looking up into the big, big sky, slightly blocked out by big, big trees. The power was out again, it was 30 degrees. My breath was like dragon smoke and my lungs ached from laughing 20 seconds prior, but now there was a starlit stillness, a general holy hush. Frontier talking, where were we? No, I mean, I knew physically where we were, but how did we get here, I mean, from where we’d been. We’d been reading poetry, the Word Virus, slightly drunk and up all night. The light about the washer fluorescent and flickering just like the time before when I’d been tripping in another life. My back’s against the washer, my laptop’s on the dryer, electronic pulses of words illuminated. He’s close, too close, but I surrender to this starchild. In the morning I want to run away. Sure, i am grateful, but my life is falling apart, or so it would seem. And I know, just know already it was exactly what I needed and I can’t hang because I want a future to continue. And I know he is done giving. Mistake. Regret. Ego. Banish them and this polarity paradigm too. Oh if loving could truly be beautiful outside of my angel would I ever know it?

Here we are on this hill. Winter a blue moonlit haze around us. This is where I was going when I came back home you know baby? I was going up this hill with you, on the solstice, power out, moon washing out stars and reflecting on snow. Breaths big, so big, they reflect too. Clear enough to get a view of heaven on earth, compassionate creator.

If you want to be anywhere else, please go, I’m fine on my own.

All the things and games we played, costumes we wore, whether or not I’ve mastered them, still, I’d like to play some more. That balance between ego and lust. Should I leave here, I will break apart, but should you leave, I’m sure you’ll leave my heart.

We were alluding to this union, but the magic of geography stopped us dead in our tracks. One moment we are again the center of creation. Every time this happens, I want to hold on, hold on.

You twinkle your eyes at me, “Just let it be.”

With increasing frequency. Moment to moment they come closer together. I find no need to cling so closely to the perfection we are experiencing now. Outside of it, I am amazed to be able to appreciate a winter landscape.

Our eyes are locked in secret understanding, us, creators, makers, world shakers. But I blast through fear and stillness fingertips against the back of your hand. We’ve been here too long. Let’s go home. I run up the hill until I feel my purchase slick and my boots slide, skidding to a stop a few houses up. Your smile is a beacon as you reach my side.

The key’s in the door.

I figure I’ll be heading out alone next time.

The joy in trysts lessens as my play becomes world creation, awareness spread out to different nodes, each to each. I find myself an echo, but the ache has ceased.

There’s the memory of the anti-hero, some Godfather of punk that old Billy dreamed up. The Kip Kasey and Cody… Calloway. How frustrating. 70… 80… years later my sister and I find some old balls of yarn and begin knitting these scrap tales together again.

I’m knocking on your door now. “Hello? May I come in?” The charm of mason jars as drink conferrers has increased my sensitivity to picking up your energies, but the Daphne still hasn’t quite worn off and so I leave some tea at your door and dart back to the forest.

If not for trees, I do not exist. Trees are all that I am? If trees, then me? How could I ever leave again? Or is this the beginning of another test.

Knowing there is a home to come back to, or at least a mirror of a home. I want to stay. More than anything, wondering if winter will bring wanderlust again. Creeping in, the thought of my sphere of influence being unaffected by outside sway. I think you no longer feel that motion in my step, hips swaying like trunks in the wind.

My content is lost on solitude. If no one else is in on the game, why play at all? But for movement, for in movement is dance, and all is dance.

Jesco White, William Burroughs, Jack Kerouac, Cab Calloway, Anais Nin, Henry Miller, and Neal Cassady are apparently hauling in for an old style shindig tonight at the faerie bower…. I think Coleman Hawkins might drop by with some orange sodapop later.

Who are all these strange ghosts rooted to the silly little adventure of earth with me?

What’s your story Morning Glory?

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