desertpoet's blog: "sweet tart haiku"

The subconcious breath of the lover thickens and along the night screams with the diseased French horn symphonies expelling and transmogrifying octaves of the subtle expressions of infinite existences and the cycles are looping every ninety minutes thickening along the veins we walk along the dusty hallway of their dry collapsed urethra our ears plugged with salt and snot so we cannot hear these laughing souls so we cannot percieve the sides since we can only sigh when we can only see one angle at a time the violet refractions of so many facets the indigo tears of those which we could have taken the ashen tiers of those by which we could not have come in the world without their sacrifice or interpretations that bring us closer not to the promise but rather to the state of absolute freedom.

Like I told you this journey isn't just for me it's for the ivory harvested for piano keys and the blue cloak of twilight choked by mexican coal. I'm doing this for your parentage and all the souls you trampled. suppose we sur round our midnights with dopamine and for giveness? I'm doing this for you and the kids and I just need to get down the road a few steps. shit motherfucker I said I'd give you a lift would you just get in the fucking car?

I keep reciting that haiku to myself I say it aloud walking through the house I hear it inside myself, daydreaming at the library. It's a different tart flavor on my lips, new with every recitation. In my car, it tastes like a Granny Smith apple. In my bed, it tastes like a blood orange. In my bathtub, reciting it to the cat while she takes her own bath it's like biting a ripe cherry tomato. In the bar watching the sunset, it tastes like pomegranate seeds, indelibly staining my fingers and mouth red. It's the one about a snow-dusted sparrow sitting on the church bell. In the night, when I start babbling haikus to you in tongues like a fundamentalist embraced by religious excitation, in the dark, you are the bell. I am the tongue of the bell ringing you from inside. In between the peals of the bell, the snow dusted sparrow flies in search of seeds.