Saturn and Mars are so bright tonight, moreso in this Texas sunset than in this Texas 330AM,
but Jupiter outshines them both

still

wink, wink at me you dead fucking gods, my crown stays hidden

"i am an undiscovered saint/i hide behind my warpaint"


i went to see Hellboy with a girl that loves him loves him

i opened this evening to that girl with a half-a pint of my homemade Chocolate Buttermint ice cream, the machine seeming to work again after sleeping some moons away in ginger'd dreams,
and was rewarded with a ticket to the flick.
good trade, Mister Wile.
and no, i dun love her, but i love the feeling of being with her?


but my phone weighed a thousand pounds today.

missed calls last night from Peaseblossom far north are ironic in that my Sweet Rocket Scientist is in Penn's Woods, the original Faerie of America, our own Eire

and i missed her calls as well. well, her phone call, anyway.

i hear her song rolled in echoes and cloudhum with each breeze that hits me when my mind is gloriously blank for some moments...
Peaseblossom speaks of resonance, while my Rocket Scientist moves in hertz, rarefied in compression and rarefaction, crowning these Just Scales
a basic harmonic
and
i am past pentatonic at this point



my ear is always at the sky, like an indian at the prarie floor, soundscrabbling for the thunder of lifes undertapping the ground as it ebbs and flows across it
and sometimes i'm rewarded innit
tho sometimes i cannae stand to hear what it brings, as well


even as i try to hold the soft scallops of understanding and some wonder in this new voice of an unfae ( but not unseelie) 1000 miles to the north

and i find myself in barnacled in caution, that my ego doesnae drive my heart
again


i am a bigskysailor, but i miss my mountains. i hear Appalachia as loud as Texas sometimes, and were it not for Starhead, i'd fain follow
if for nothing more than to hear love's words on love's breath, not just piggyback'd on some light

and if there's a better reason to travel than love, then there is no travel to be had

even as i hobble around on these stupid protesting stumps of amputated wishes, i still move
and without a beggar's-cup
and without ladderfear
tho not without the memory of gravel in my palms
(Angels, in my Angels)

it's all road, innit?






.

my fingers are sticky, my lips taste like fruit, and my tongue is happy.

in half a moon, this'll be apricot vodka.

i might not be on this planet when i break the seal, tho.







Praise Jah.