Parallel Voyages 18 A sensation of summer on my skin calls for - TopicsExpress



          

Parallel Voyages 18 A sensation of summer on my skin calls for your hair flailing in high winds. Because you are a girl, your exit doors are different--ones you never enter alone into the sensation of time going up the clock and down the skid roads behind the river curves, meanders, sidewinder creek tributaries, then we can untangle your long skirts of sounds, scent of bitter roots. Always the locations are suspect, they never hold your breathing eyes. If you inhale the coast fogs for more than a minute, you will walk like trees, slowly along paths in rain, opening only blue jay screeching, boasting and lambasting sounds, arrogant spearhead beak blows on sparrows, food blows, strikes. You turn to look back and see fog people following your silence, slim, thin cutting into effortless air, calm. I hold you in tree branch languages on the tip of my summer soul fire, surf water forgetting light, balm. What was the internal temperature of the mind in the shade of linden trees? Dressed mostly in air, light cotton print dress, the wind takes you into the sky like a lady butterfly. I leap to follow, wind buffets me in zigzag fragrances of wildly fluttering atom petals. Some of them remember earlier lives, the thirsty petal leaves sip dew. A sensation of immense dawn light reveals an early universe, when we were both lit up with small kisses--not like a rash-- but sweet white blaze scent, slipping languorously as from white winds: nests of curves, fulfilled wishes in a dream. It was a city, aromatic dream plants, no walls, but sound lattices from which thought screens filtered the purple sun rays, retroweaved them into absent time, unraveled minutes that opened empty-- non-being spaces to allow shoots of star sprouts to feed dragon stallions and mares, not fire dragons, digesting rainbows and belching opal stones--the power jewels for octagon space-drive ships-- shapeshift transport to other planets and rectilinear land based thought cubes. Your miles-long platinum hair precedes you in the river as you float on liquid white light. This kind of time is spotlight accentual minutes that blaze in furnaces and release rain sparks falling blue and olive and red oil of musk and air frequencies of oxygen and starwater blisters on oaks. Things that want be seen wake up ready to run over the morning hilltops where a vast incantation of water fire and steam woods fills the lungs and we dance on bones of former monks who emptied their minds on this spot and left a smell, venerated for its disgust, and perfect imbalance of senses of green and opal, emerald forest choices, of skeletons inside, half shells, or solid pillars of sky-lifting branch crowns. I come into your waters and feel what it knows after so much no-time at all passing, fingers catching fish thoughts, slip in and out of delicate river pull; the moon current influences your body shapes. I can feel you assembling the horizons into a battalion of non-walls, a definition zone of limits, the other worlds must stop edge to edge for translation into life forms. Women with red hair give rivers the sunset colors of lust, desires for children already born in the vast future of time. Russell Salamon November 14, 2014 818-761-4568
Posted on: Mon, 18 Nov 2013 21:59:25 +0000

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