Keeping up with RJ

Hard times have fallen

But the sun will shine again

It’s going to be all right baby

But I can’t say when

Well it’s hard times now

But the sun will shine again

Don’t know where I’m going,

But it’s better than where I been

Phone rang this morning,

Woke me out of bed

A hand came through the receiver

Shook me upside my head

Well there’s hard times people,

Getting worse every day

Bad luck’s got hold of me,

Every which way I turn

Should sell my soul to the devil

People say don’t talk that way

Hard times have fallen

But the sun will shine again

I'm a steady rolling woman

I roll both night and day

But I haven't got no sweet thing

To roll along with me

No one to roll along with me

Makes me feel so lonesome,

Can’t keep from crying, 

Can’t keep my eyes dry

Losing love’s tough that way,

Got to keep on struggling to get by

No time to worry if my life’s been in vain

Felix gone, left me behind

Been on my mind, left me quite blind

Life and death entwined

I’m a steady rolling woman

Staying on my grind

Hoping the stars stay aligned

Boarding that train

Not high on cocaine

Holding off the pain, feigning delight,

Got to slay these blues tonight

I'm a free-rolling woman

Heading down life’s highway

A steady rolling woman

Standing at the crossroads

Lost track of time, 

brain out of whack

A turning tempo of time

Expecting the devil by & by

With his bag full of illusions

Want to find out why

Got my eyes on the prize,

Devil got his eyes on me

Lost love along the way

Don’t know night from day

Rolling along singing my song

Not too lonesome to

Write a poem in vain

Soul trains coming,

Looking for a ride

To follow my dream

Follow them along

My mind’s going for a ride tonight

The blues are on my soul tonight

Got to keep struggling, rolling along

A rolling stone gathers no moss,

Fight those blues

Trying to stay right

I’m a steady rolling woman

Rolling to the crossroads

Keeping time with my hand jive  

Making up my mind

Where I’m going this day in time

*  I wrote this song some time ago, way back in 2012, and somehow it never made its way here.  Of course, it's for Robert Johnson. I own his complete collection and I love RJ. Everyone knows the story about how he went to the crossroads and the devil took his life. If not - look it up. Pretty fantastic stuff. 

I Sing The Blues For You Today

I want to do poetry like Billy Holiday singing the blues
I want to do poetry like Ella Fitzgerald
I want to be me singing my holiday blues
Billie’s songs are poetry so fine it makes me think I’m her doing rhyme
Thoughts about Billie make me go off line, hook line & sinker; she puts me back in time
I sing to my lover, I want to make your poetry mine because you spout rhymes
Observing my life become an unending grocery list of things to get done
Your life or mine, yours is on my mind - the list of to dos keeps growing exponentially
Number 1, try out a mattress, 2, buy it, 3, buy new locks to keep someone out number 4, find someone to install it, make 10 million calls. Keep writing lists. What did you say? How many sessions, any lessons in storage? Will the Divine power of intervention help?
I don’t want to bore you with the details and derail you from my song.
Damn, wonder if I’ll ever see Willa Dean again– oh man, you know the women I mean
Kept her head wrapped up like an African Queen with her creamy coffee looking self.
Willa said the secret to good potato salad is to go heavy on the mayo
Willa Dean days, they’re all in a haze now. I was so high back then.
The memory lingers, listening & watching while she told stories. She’d whisper, her voice barely a breeze, tell me about her lovers, say, “I’m gonna get me some.” … I’d get confused & asked, did she mean her husband or lover. Willa’d have dinner waiting when her husband got tired of driving a cab & came home to rest. She’d show me wilted lettuce and bring it back to life telling me about her lovers, drugs, & children while making potato salad.
I thought - she’s a woman of many talents, a stoned cold junkie and a working mom combined
The nose that knows, her preference was coke, good moist coke at a good right price too on the upper - upper west side in Washington Heights, 162nd street to be exact
Willa had class & style combined; she took me to dress models at the Ritz one time. Got paid for it too. It was such a pleasure to do. I even got a pair of designer gloves out of it.
People accepted Willa everywhere we went –
Willa was friends with a famous New York jazzman and his wife, a New York City teacher. We were at jazzman’s apartment, small tight crowded living room upper west side 90’s.
Willa’s friend sat across from me staring at my big breasts. I can see how tight your muscles are.
Let me massage you she said aggressively
hurting me so bad physically we had an argument instead.
Passing through hundreds of lives so many colors
Let me take you back to what we share - strivings for love – wanting to go somewhere –
Wanting to discover who we really are ~
see ourselves through the eyes of others and – finally see who we really are.
Extend this power to the umpteenth degree. We still wonder who they think we are ~
Uncover recover to turn to return to who we want to be
Dreams are reality - stop thinking, dreams are the color of my true love’s hair
Beyond the color of my true love’s hair, his dreads caress my bare hands
A whole-years grocery list pressed into a foggy mist of autumn red
turns bright chartreuse before bleakly the list dissolves before my eyes
True colors make my heart sneeze amidst a perpetual mist of violet-blues
a dream more real than a memory


I realize many people don't have time to stay so I wanted to take this poem, the first of the bluetry series and put it up front for people to see.

© December 2008

new old bluetry #7- Bluetry Flowing Coming & Going

Mad Swirl Girl I’m Violet– a wild mad swirl of a girl inside my heart design, grabbed this for a new poetry line. I never refuse a gift of words I can use. Hey isn’t that a line from a poem? If not I’ll make it one. Violet coming at ya’ - from the Heights, born and raised here -so get down with me tonight, cause we’re all good.

I’ve got the blues real bad flowing from my heart to my hands

My mind feels my heart sing misty blue for you

Heartstrings pull the red river roves of my mind stills

Turns chill as the weather

the trill of the river’s wake

I am here waiting for you to come on home, just come on home

Who’s crazy here? You say I’m the prisoner. I say it’s you. History sees the oppressor oppressed by oppressee. Let me break it down. You’re powerful. I got the balls to defy you – you’re no different than me. We got the same wires trapped beneath the dresser. I’m mother earth confessor, my ribs made this nation, I got the sensation to feel you I do. My ribs crush concrete – I perspire with desire light money rains right outside the window my rainbow manifests. Get outta my way I’ma hit the sky today, it’s my time to get me some, you hear me son.

Attached like twins - umbilical cord traveling in space right alongside death,

death and life - 2 ends of the same string.

Fate, energy, beyond a memory, the stars, the moon, some stars make it some don’t, some have to fake it and still can’t make it, some of us have it and never make it from the bottom to the top It’s all in my head I assure you my Bluetry won’t cure you for sure if you’re poor demure obscure, secure or insecure and you got the blues come on and wail with me, baby

You could slow your demise.

You remind me of my x-girlfriend he continues on a roll of faith– she’s in love with her own voice too. I guess we have interesting voices I said to defend us. Don’t know if he heard he’s busy feeling his own world. I remind him of a past love. He reported recorded ex gf thinks he’s crazy because he follows me on the internet all the way from India. Imaginary Legends, I can’t help it. It’s outta focus. I can’t imagine -Time gone, nothing matters anymore. Sex, whatever you need, free from fee on the Internet, no lies, all tried and true.

All the voices in my head tread lightly the pain is great I got the blues on download in my psyche, I’ma put it on pause take a breath let the light in through

The darkened drapes covering my universe.

My daddy said I was tone deaf, throw that in reverse.

Capitalize on this crazy bluetry ~ sing Nina Simone off key for you

Like a flower waiting to bloom; Like a light bulb in a dark room

I’m here waiting for you to come on home, and turn me on

Living the blues in the intimate language raising the decibel level for interpole,

Internet language – you misheard - dig out the earwax.

A constant ache, I ain’t as pretty as I used to be. If only I hadn’t put on all that we8. You say don’t worry, it’s all transitory anyway, I’m waiting for someone - show me the way, on the other end, I’m not myopic – I can’t see that far, I’m water, a Pisces, I shape shift into form then when I understand them - I become more a part of who I am I am I am

The entire poem was reorganized and made new

Reality is the Blues Too - Bluetry #9

The Internet blends virtual and living
what’s the word you’re saying I can’t understand u, I keep trying to cope with his accent.
No, emphatically softly spoken writing chat, speaking hurriedly, I write in internet language –
Oh I said, how come I can’t hear or understand you.

U remind me of my gurlfriend hurt voice grouchy deep,
add another rock to the pile of styles I forbid you too,
finally fell silent for my own good.
She’s in love with me too he cood.
Oh well we probably have a lot in common I say with each breath I’m dying.
Well ok beecoz
she thinks it’s inconceivable
I’m friends with a woman frm america
you and I we’ll speak 12 hrs frm now
when its ni8 for u N day 4 me
a strange language in a love embrace
play your blues for me daddy I wont go home
I’ll eat them all night long let your blues loose for me, Daddy
A cool glass; water please. No disease please let me go
You turn me on I’m a radio
you’re driving into town
With a dark cloud above you
Dial in the number
Who’s bound to love you
Oh honey you turn me on
Im’a radio, a country-station broadcasting tower
I’m so in love with me why aren’t you

An outcast misfit living in bluetry- a new word I create my own lexicon, I never refuse a gift I can use; I’m strong or wrong, a poet, not a bully
I just want someone to love.
Respect – the girl next-door walks by my door covered with blue bruises, her baby held hostage by su esposo’ para hacer un esclavo de ella - make a slave of her, no tiene’ respecto’ mis vecino’s concurra.
I’m hungry don’t you want some breast-fast?
(oo) What you want
(oo) Baby, I got it
(oo) What you need
(oo) Don't know I got it?
Cast out from everything, by everyone I know I live outside looking in.
Longing for youthful beauty fading in the distance the moon and stars keep riffin those guitar blues in persistence I hear ya knocking at my door.
I hear ya knockin’ but ya can’t come in
I’m scared you’re more dangerous than me, I’m scared for her, for you for me for all of us I am, my life breath fading in the instance of constantly –
that bottle slide sure does make that guitar riff daddy.
Let it go to my feet wet windy sex in the sax screech of my lungs sound
Like a flower waiting to bloom
Like a light bulb in a dark room
I'm jes sittin’ here waiting for you to come on home
And turn me on

Billie's Blues Dog Rescue #VIII

Billie’s blues on my mind tonight
I’ve morphed into Billie singing my blues to her blues we are one
Your protestations sink into my instrumentals
Everything’s easy to get on the Internet; you can get whatever you want to.

I’m a fool to want you, for heaven’s sake why am I in love, here’s a chance fall in love.

I race up the stairs to face closing doors #1 train, elevated, a second too late. For God’s sake, my breath jagged, voice barely whispers on exhale. A golden red-nosed puppy stands before me, jumps on the bench next to DubbleX. Eye to eye, dilemmas & sadness everywhere.

Dubblex says forget the train roars up the watches drama ensues. The dog shaking, wet & wary furry pretty fur seeking solace and warmth. Train pulls in dog runs for the open doors, crevice between the platform & train. I see him go under. I grab him by the flesh on his neck; pull him away from the closing door. Another moment stolen from death. The pup whines, returns to the bench. My heart skips a Billie holiday beat.

This revolution will not be televised it will not put the shine back on your teeth. How bout the belt from my bag - I greedily grab it. Pup accepts collar attempts to climb into my arms again.

Kneel down Johnny, heel, his haunches pressed to my thighs, crouched beside him, clinches the blended holiness of earth and sky. Pressed to my chest, his tongue sweeps my neck. Paws bleeding raw - ice & sleet on the pavement.
Let’s agree to be in love like a melody. Wet white snow falling huge flakes drop on my face. I can’t go where I want to.

Money you’ve got lots of friends crowding right your door,
but when you’re gone and nothing’s left, they don’t come round no more.

I want to go back when things were changing. Now things are suspended or turning backwards. I don't understand. Race for faith, blood bath, Kent State massacre, more prejudice now then before.

Baby pit follows me whining. I bend to examine torn ragged paws, bloodied from standing in deep salted snow, blizzards outside the station. He covers me with kisses, dutifully remains still a second then jumps on my chest. Here, boy, Here. I crouch down he throws himself in my arms shaking.

Downstairs the token booth clerk says cops are on their way. My heart booms, a gut reaction, not my future. I hold red nose with my make shift collar. He pulls me he’s strong, his attention span like a child’s eye caught by mischief, his shaking visible to everyone. Cops show up, act afraid even when they see him sucking my face. The sgt arrives & doesn’t know what to do. Finally a cage from the station arrives. I take charge, tell them how to put him in there away from my caring arms.

I’m a fool to want you. A red nosed pit bull with tail & ears intact. Will they find a home for him? My heart sings collateral let freedom ring, life on a hinge.

Getting My Fiduciary Groove On ~ Bluetry #15

Get that moolah!
I hear the blues blaring in my head keeping time with the rhythmic beating of my heart
He says, you hammer away like a woodpecker at a tree I say why would I have to be

Mr. and Mrs. Perfect writing off into the sunset
Beset with other concerns can't keep up with the jet set; let me get a taste of java wet from the shower – like frost you turn the sweetest flower to dust
I live on a different planet ~ the moon of the desert sun

Pull out your clarinet and riff me some of them blues baby
Forget about fretting no sweat baby no job
you ain’t likely to get that little corvette
It’s money that’s what I want
They keep telling me the best things in life are free
But you can save that shit for the birds and bees
Throw me some money that’s what I want, a lotta money

Show me some affirmation for my saturation in my individuation; my infatuation is my collusion with occlusion the entire scenario’s a big illusion, stop your accusations, I’m into sanitation – clean this shit up I say!

Give me some antibiotic to cure me from my anti-bureaucratic ways ~ Your antagonistic acidic mean way is what made me leave you in the first plays – your acerbic reaction, you live in a theater play – you don’t give a fuck as you stay stuck in cliché mode lost in dismay -
your figure outlined in the doorway – you think my souls a fucking driveway, I’m familiar with your dossier
I sit and crochet another dread cap dreaming about that chalet made from stone and glass
Rolling meadows and sassafras – leave your morose ass behind while you seek a bypass
I could have it all if I only had some money
Did you hear what I said? That’s what I want Gimmee money

Your loving never gave me much of a thrill but it was useful to help pay my bills
I want some money that’s what I want, I know that money don’t get you everything it’s true
What it don’t get I can’t use that’s part of why I got these woodpecker blues
Now give me money that’s what I want

My life’s gone astray, I try to stay blasé’ hooray for me I’m gonna make some headway and it’s not all heresy – give me a little leeway I’ll show you some mayday

A floodway filled to the brim with resentment, I’m searching for a little contentment
a presentment that money’s the answer to my emancipation proclamation
your abasement antedated my abandonment, it’s no accident, I created a new precedence
and returned to my former craziness

I sing my money blues to you today; share the brilliant broadcast that money’s on its way
Money can’t buy you everything it’s true but what it can’t buy I can’t use
So give me money it’s what I want, Gimmee money – lots of money
Gimmee some money to cure these woodpecker blues
I’m not being greedy Gimmee money, that’s what I want


Notes & Credits:
The original Money that's what I want was recorded in 1959 by Barrett Strong for the Tamla label, distributed by Anna Records. The song was written by Tamla founder, Berry Gordy and Janie Bradford, and became the first hit record for Gordy's Motown flagship label. This version is written by me and is not the same as the original except for the refrain, money that's what I want. Other parts are similar but not the same.

Smoke that dream before I cream you - Bluetry #10

Smoke that dream before I cream you

 

A rough month ensues, work on projects, help people.

 

I’ve got my own mishigas to sort through. Memories a life’s sake, a backache, earache filibuster, Monroe birthday zone, a black hole, don’t know where to go. A vagabond review, a Scarsdale Hebrew cemetery, morsel of dainty tastiness nastiness a black hole of madness, no home to go to.

 

Stuck inside my head, a poet’s world, inspired to drive down dirty, get high on some Thai stick, trying to get skinny on the sly, sounds tinny, the words stuck in my eardrums, tum de dum

 

Exhale poetry with scarlet U2 embolism demolishes dents an entire world out there, me capsized in the cave, mountain dew bats flapping in my head, breathe new scents of se.  , vanilla do me right, love me some choco latte.

 

Inhale Exhale, a little cheech and chong, put it in a little pill for me. I want to kill that roach, don’t encroach on my spot, shit I see you got your eyes on a brand new spanking spaldine, bounce da ballie, brand new – higher than that kite you want to make take flight.

 

Fire your ass off stop sass saw me in half. I wanna make some war in cognito infinito, vagabond report retort a torte a flamingo of golden gal glimmer if I offer you a drizzle of Acapulco gold.

 

If you only got sensimilla, with nice big blue green buds, a Thai joint will bend me fine, ven aqui, pasa lo, share it, … please.

 

Don’t do me like that. My hand’s open – greed.

 

Give me some weed, some time to digest the rest but so far it’s ok, I'm not a lawyer. I’m a voyeur, not a destroyer, not part of the choir, I live in a temple, excoriate licorice on my breath, a little violet lipstick, blissful Babel bagel babe, carnal comet, so much like cattle,  pick up your bustle and hustle along. Mazel Tov!

 

Damask cilantro, another whiff of pungent smoke, floats up from patchouli incense I use to mask the scent of hashish oil.

 

Up in smoke, again and again.

Abuse Bluetry # VI

An abuse a report I don’t retort I save my I for you
Sanity or peace – at the crossroads I want a piece of pie

I’ve got the virus so bad down my pipeline, I talk poetry instead of words, spittin rhymes all the time, lost memory recording rumination rhyming in time chillen. A virus striving to proliferate, probing pounding my mon venus, veins vibrating rhythms of poetry I can’t hold off any longer a vaccination didn’t cure the poetry virus my wounded soul carries, I can’t fathom who I am, where I exist in a labyrinth of sanity this way to feign pain to the inner sanctum.

Formatting bluebirds wrangling on a computer keyboard for seeds before flying off with obsidian torts in moonlight gazing settling stark naked on peeling disseminated trees branches.

Leave form for them who see more than I see who I say I am a local shape-shifter, birthed conscious universality of incense timed algorithms who constantly lie absorbing every I in my world of I’s am who they say they are and I am you, the I in my eye is same as your eye

I promise you the world today if only you’ll publish me the deed in lieu of foreclosure signed sealed and delivered –heart and soul for an ounce of the blues I’ve strung here stung here, be nice don’t stare don’t disrespect - I don’t want to be cuckolded either but everyone can’t be a stones’ throw away once the best will come to those who come knocking last ain’t x-actly held beholden true – ooh ooh your way is as good as trying to get when you got when you try anyway cause you can’t admit you’d ever give up or if you did how could you.

Absorb like a sponge with poetic touch a genius of sense sentiment each vertebra holds promise of spirit gazes crossing deserts of darkened psychopaths lost a vision, a sky light of delightful glimmers beckons to see murky ink beneath that star gaze.

Heart pussy dick one woman or man I can’t recall, point is, why can’t I be me first and second be my gender tell me is it my race, religion all copycatting social rejects, disaster, despondence and glee. Like a glacier rotting away I sit eating ice cream while the world degenerates, the landslide arrives in tow of my wisdom. All ow ance to tow my heart in lieu of surrender to a horrendous poetry deed –Buddha beckoning open window let the wind escape its misery accepted by this cityscape.

Gender race face all the rest glee gall all about who we know not who we are - love the poetic glow, get got a new face a new race a rhyme and rhythm hijacking inner flow has entered my soul and I got the blues here for sure, I got my face back on set, timed to society’s soul fell on face get up and go again brush of the dirt and wipe the tears choice.

Publish me I promise you I’m for sale in lieu of poetry foreclosure. I’ll lick your toes, fit your image sell my soul blow me say my name. I’m down with the devil as much as you are in society’s grasp. I strive to inhale exist side by side. Explore – search for more - heard about poetic genius the other day, got the bums rush - how cool is that for more.

Rain georgettes violets
poet laureate soul for sale
writer extroadinaire
poet for sale … how much will you pay?

Billie's Blues on Consumerism - Bluetry #5

Consumerism’s got the best of me in spite of my fighting so hard to maintain the good thinks in life. I keep fighting a losing battle. I want to believe the best things in life are free but I get stopped in my tracks.

Buy buy buy they implore, while I have nothing left to buy with except very extended credit debts. I’m outta cash supply, debts mount easily. Buy, buy, buy, come read poetry. Buy a glass of wine. You can’t sit there and read. You’ve got to pay your dues too. Don’t forget the entrance fee. Cough it up.

Tons of paper discarded daily senselessly. No one could be so sad. Trees ask me to tell them why they’re born to be discarded they wail about their senseless lot, they live to be - they ask me if I know why it’s like this, what’s all this suffering for? I cry. I cry.

Lights on in every room whether you’re home or not to keep the burglars away. In Harlem Mexicans crowded 3 families to each apartment while we pay taxes to build another Yankee Stadium right next to the one already there. The rich pay more for private boxes while Mexicans live in NYC barracks, 20 in a 3 room apt, barely able to pay the rent. Please I beg you give the poor some of my taxes instead I plead. They turn a deaf ear. Please, please?

I sit in my room looking out at the rain, no one could be so sad. Gloom everywhere, I sit and I fear, I don’t know what the world is coming to.

Kill canned hunts. WTF, what kind of concept kills caged animals for a few dollars from the rich? I can’t wait. I want to kill hunters; torture them watch life slowly drain from them, their heads lolling to one side. I place their head on my lap. Take a pic too, like they do to the lioness bleeding from her mouth, trying to feed her cubs behind the fence, teats full of milk. Make them like quarry, my prey, another trophy.

You can’t hide from the ugliness I try to hide I do, I do. I can’t take much more.

I sit in my chair filled
Filled with despair.
No one could be so sad.
gloom everywhere, I sit and I stare. What’s the state of the universe? Is there anybody out there?

The ugliness all a glow, picture show for family. Bring up your moohlah! We got yours here. Worse than Sodom & Gomorrah. My soul’s for sale. Name your price! Sold to the devil at the crossroads!

This revolution will not be televised; will not put the shine back on your teeth. Civil rights gone, lives tapped into by government, someone’s in control somewhere. Not me, hey, I’m all alone in here waiting for the pain to go away. I sit in my chair full of despair, no one could be this sad.

I cry to trees. They hear my pleas. No one else does.

Please! Please. Is there anybody out there?

Credits go to the following sites for publishing this poem previously:

Mad Swirl

Kevin Zeese occupy blog

Occupy Wall Street Anthology

I Sing The Blues For You Today ~ FIRST BLUETRY

I want to do poetry like Billy Holiday singing the blues
I want to do poetry like Ella Fitzgerald
I want to be me singing my holiday blues
Billie’s songs are poetry so fine it makes me think I’m her doing rhyme
Thoughts about Billie make me go off line, hook line & sinker; she puts me back in time
I sing to my lover, I want to make your poetry mine because you spout rhymes
Observing my life become an unending grocery list of things to get done
Your life or mine, yours is on my mind - the list of to dos keeps growing exponentially
Number 1, try out a mattress, 2, buy it, 3, buy new locks to keep someone out number 4, find someone to install it, make 10 million calls. Keep writing lists. What did you say? How many sessions, any lessons in storage? Will the Divine power of intervention help?
I don’t want to bore you with the details and derail you from my song.
Damn, wonder if I’ll ever see Willa Dean again– oh man, you know the women I mean
Kept her head wrapped up like an African Queen with her creamy coffee looking self.
Willa said the secret to good potato salad is to go heavy on the mayo
Willa Dean days, they’re all in a haze now. I was so high back then.
The memory lingers, listening & watching while she told stories. She’d whisper, her voice barely a breeze, tell me about her lovers, say, “I’m gonna get me some.” … I’d get confused & asked, did she mean her husband or lover. Willa’d have dinner waiting when her husband got tired of driving a cab & came home to rest. She’d show me wilted lettuce and bring it back to life telling me about her lovers, drugs, & children while making potato salad.
I thought - she’s a woman of many talents, a stoned cold junkie and a working mom combined
The nose that knows, her preference was coke, good moist coke at a good right price too on the upper - upper west side in Washington Heights, 162nd street to be exact
Willa was friends with a famous New York jazzman and his wife, a New York City teacher. Willa had class & style combined; she took me to dress models at the Ritz one time. Got paid for it too. It was such a pleasure to do. I even got a pair of designer gloves out of it.
People accepted Willa everywhere we went –
We were at jazzman’s apartment, small tight crowded living room upper west side 90’s.
Willa’s friend sat across from me staring at my big breasts. I can see how tight your muscles are.
Let me massage you she said aggressively
hurting me so bad physically we had an argument instead.
Passing through hundreds of lives so many colors
Let me take you back to what we share - strivings for love – wanting to go somewhere –
Wanting to discover who we really are ~
see ourselves through the eyes of others and – finally see who we really are.
Extend this power to the umpteenth degree. We still wonder who they think we are ~
Uncover recover to turn to return to who we want to be
Dreams are reality - stop thinking, dreams are the color of my true love’s hair
Beyond the color of my true love’s hair, his dreads caress my bare hands
A whole-years grocery list pressed into a foggy mist of autumn red
turns bright chartreuse before bleakly the list dissolves before my eyes
True colors make my heart sneeze amidst a perpetual mist of violet-blues
a dream more real than a memory