i should be in copenhagen but i'm not

Reggae is the song of Spring even though mornings are dappled gray. It is the sunny streak that hotwires my brain from obsolescence. Ginger lemon tea is the drink of fountainyouth. It has magical herbs that works like a potion to ground my flighty fancies. I have flashbacks of flighty fancies lately. I taste colors and smell eagerness; i close my eyes and my heart beats adjulations. I am a bulb that dreams under the dirt.

this rusty life

*

my eyes are getting bad and there's a burning coal in my optic nerve. It radiates in my central chest. Both as a lump and a hole. I see things in opportunities. Both as an advantage and a disadvantage. I breathe like i'm gasping. Each as a wasting and a revival of life. I need to correct this. There is no transposition and grammatical error between lying and living. I need to correct this.

another year in the books

i attended a vespers on the weekend of my birthday, monks were chanting and i was praying along, the chapel faced the west and the sunset was streaming through the stained glass window, the backseat was the most solemn place i've ever been, if i stare straight to the altar, i squinted because of the dazzling lights, i had to take cover from the hooded backs of the monks so i could open my eyes to my sins, to my indifference, to my to my to my....

the monastery was in San Diego, if you are in San Diego, don't be a loco and eat a fish taco, i would cry and would die just to have Johnny Mananas fish taco again.

a lot of places to clear my head, at the pier, in the hotel room, on the hill top, wind , space, and sun are the best therapy, i am still alive, so thankful i am still intact.