Pretty Scattered

Lying in the morning fog, thinking about all these things, how my words are not poems, and I don't know a thing about poetics. My lines are sketches of the universal mind, a series of aesthetics, lyrics without music, paintings on the run, secret stories about me and you, absolutely true no matter your stripe or feather.

It’s really about getting it together…come what may or whatever, face the stormy weather, forever and a day. Standing tall is the creed...until there’s a death or a natural disaster, that is. Get back to me. Don’t forget to write, no matter what.

Then it's 6 o’clock or so in the morning, time to write again, that’s my jam. Thinking about why my mind is pretty scattered, or so it seems.

Flying high before sunrise on thoughts so sublime, wondering whether my karma will be kind, or will I be left behind by destiny or fate, perchance to dream to begin to be real again.

Are you feeling me? Is reality separating you and me? Can we get back to a time when we were free?

So many questions, all these illusions and things so far away, it’ certainly a wonder how we made it here today. Returning to the beginning of awakening, seeing clearly now the reality of the situation.

Suddenly, in the evening, all I can say is wow, you know what I mean? Love seldom seen in the days between, until the moment she slipped away, sang walk on by down the lonely avenue, giving me the goodbye look as if we were in Ipanema.

All the time it took was taken away in a series of dreams, some far out or too obscene, a mere day in the life in ordinary time. Feeling beat, I hit the street with my songs in tow singing something about a brighter tomorrow.

There we see the wonder of it all, the wonder of you, total recall, where life meets soul, recognizing days of old, a transformation to another time or destination. Learning to fly in double time or maybe to swing on down the line, moving and grooving, words flowing, feeling fine.

Standing alone, before the crowd, in the round, about to meet my maker, or be snatched from the jaws of fate, unto heaven’s gate, where love stumbles in, forward march, don’t drop the beat.

As choirs of angels sing a song for you, like a wave from on high. Could it be true believing shall set you free? Or is it so above or below the sky and sun, there in a purgatorial state, this might be our fate?

Meanwhile, the years fade to dreams, a flash of memory at 4 o’clock in the morning or so it seems, heart stirring me from slumbers again, still yearning. Fantasies take flight, wherever the shadow of your smile lingers, replacing me with visions surreal and beyond comprehension, and my mind remains pretty scattered.