Thursday, March 22, 2007

Boomerang Lines

What do you do without the threat of the Road
at your back that constant drive
whether going home or forever on your way there, perhaps finding you've arrived already, right there in your dreams, to draw boomerang lines around her waste, across this switch-back country

She is brutal and calling
I could tell her for you, that you're not far off
fiddling still, caressing the stocking seams up Jersey's firm long legs,
pleading through her tension.
I could relay your stories and glories to this worlds children, the ones mad or hungry enough to take the Time and truly listen with it, to learn a folk or two.

I think, at this age, where the world spins fast
almost it seems, shaking, like we're fleas upon a great beasts back
I lose myself, be-still my limbs to find the light to set the right foot upon the path again, and at dawn's break my souls pure in content, enough to know the restless road runs on throughout the night.

It's every moment you spend dreaming, and every road you haven't tread down
It's the hours spent wasted, lazily mistaken for boredom or the speed of the breakneck fly-by face slaps, the sparks that light the fire, and the air, the breath of wind that fuels her dancing flames with laughter.

Spaces between the blurs, paused streams of energies, from point A to B and Z, the fine fibers measuring ages, trailing away, wet feet upon black hot pavement, glacier feed rainbow waters, strange piling lava lands, the towering majesty of a redwood forest, the desert rolled out like a dusty carpet, Orion stalking my Skys and the holy North an eternal guide.

All Sisters and Brothers, broken and mended, flawed in outstanding ways, all picking up pieces, laying out roots, clinging to mountain faces, falling with grace and searching for fireflies out at sea, connecting or rejecting like magnetic waves, humble lightning, blackened fingernails, tough weathered soles and fire-lit smiles with a bite behind 'em.

I could wake this land up screaming, babbling with the river about the noise we can create, rile her all up, leave her rushing in excitement, I'll tell the Sun she can keep on shinning, there ain't a face I want left out of the light, even the ones with clouds over their eyes, or the brave dynamite souls under city skylines…

I could let America know, but all I have are whispers, cigarette smoke signals, dusty wheels screeching, the kickback particles, refractions dreaming, old world mirror images, exaggerated tales of true heart and raw soul, tip-toe memories, a great long winds worth of flashback heart attacks, all your drops rippling on...

I could give the 'ol gal a heads up, sure I could, but I rather ya'll tell her yerselves, pump sa' more Jersey through her blood...remind her she is strong willed, driven and witty, soft and deserving, and that she has a beautiful boisterous voice and you yearn to listen.

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