Walking further down past the church I slip on a heel, pants weathered from lack of drought, sinking past the roots my mind fondles Dew. Sweet, bitter, young, laughter, in the streets above me. Lost conversations abound, naked and running, summers eve has fallen. Make way for her, autumn. The Soft side of forgiveness, opposites, the corner of the dresser where we rest our cigarette butts reminds me of dark dank cellar where tramps drink cheap gin, a sound in the bathroom muffled by headlights in the yard, knowing that ill have to change my dirty old work boots in a couple of hours because of, her pillow, the cat, thy kitchen cabinet, false teeth in an antique glass. Now, or then, and. Inside the rats cage ran by electric and copper wire, standing alone in the dead of the forest under antler trees.. City sidewalks and rural nations trapped in war. Her voice..

Life is strange this July, the onlooker decides.. He sits at a park bench and feeds the turtles the last remains of half eatin news papers full of lost horoscopes and albertsons coupons. How strange it is to have time turn boys into insane addicts of lust, creatures slow to move oceans of knowledge. Now time stands still and the knowledge comes from an old man. As he sits and looks insane, talking to turtles, taking turns with riddles he knows the answers to in his head, I pass by.
I find in my own time, with this age, I now whisper out loud, alone, where as in my youth, I wouldent be caught dead talking to myself..
How strange this life has become..
I Paint a picture with invisible ink and watch it wash away.
The tide is far from where I dwell, although in the right of day, I catch its smell.
Footprints in the sky walk backwards, although forward motion is pushing on..
These thoughts, these people, these days, and so on and so forth.. What a specticle we live.. If only I could watch you, if only you could watch me, if only I walk to the bottom of the sea. . . . . Broken ships know..but they won't tell, maybe I too will wind up on a bench, feeding turtles old newspapers, asking them.. Maybe they will tell... An old man.

Sometimes I just sit and write of the spontaneous combustion that my mind reads out loud to its self quietly. Other times it has soul purpose. Other times I think of you. Whomever you may be, or wherever you be. But Not usally. Because most of the time I have better things to occupy this pad with....
. Like what it was like to be infatile in wholly bed sheets, or how the healing waters kept the frost bite away while frost rained down from tree limbs,
or when invisible flying jack rabbits were multitudes of color and ran, or rather flew about our heads.
Or even evenings in the snug canopy's of hammocks hung slightly to the left of warm campfires next to homemade soup and stories..
Still other times I try to grasp the fadeing reminder of that which has slipped my mind.....
But right now, I'd guess I'm thinking of how it was, what it was like, and what I'm doing today..
And today fell opon galant sunrises and windy cloudy days.
Today I sat and smoked a cigarette and watched people murmur about they're day..
Today I just sat and smiled at life.. I like it when that happens.. It gives me reason to write on.. And it let's me know, that tomorrow too shall come to pass....
As did the thought of you..