but there is still this-
"these were my things that i, what was that place i was,
who are you, where are you taking me,
don't you look nice, is it dinner yet. hello."
her lostness is mostly upbeat
i hadn't visited her in this place
she is my best friend's mother
in visiting i lose something too-
i believe it's called immunity
i have lost that feeling
and don't think i'll ever find it.
mississippi backwash improv sweet
her saxaphone was a honey bee
she never played on basin street
her saxaphone was the hottie hottie
buzz of the river rats-
when the water rose,
squeezed that horn
til the juice ran out
til the juice of
ran way on out
saxaphone sadie and her sweet honey bee.
Postcards from the trees
hope you are having a nice trip. spring has come.
the birches are putting forth their catkins.
i want to steal that catkins line
but it just wouldn't be right
-seems to me i've written of it before
(attributing it to its rightful owner of course)
before ever writing a decent poem
i had that one to sleep upon at night
the line that was never meant for me
but for my mother.
Anonymous likes to watch the leaves fall and forget what poetry generation (omitted)'s suppose to be a part of. "Beatnik jam, surrealist biscuits, minimalist red-eye gravy, it's all the same to me. If it smells good, I'll eat it."