ringlets dripped down of wind

& the hot spicy tastes lingering awhile down my throat. This morning was looking too good could be true, I saw through dizzy fogged eyes out a window and through a fan, the orangeyellow leaves fluffed out a bit now, not drooping sad in the view. The sky a perfect ocean wash; I could see the tides breaking from where I sat squinting. Like a to be hot day on the coast, but during that time of pre-heat, (though in truth I think proves perfect out, and oh such fall. Autumnal in all its obviousness. I will never close these parentheses. My hair has little knots at its ends. I let the fan blow no matter the temperament of day. I like the slow accordion sound. I like the spicy herbs, dandilion leaves. I like the cold ankles, the anticipatory shower, & poems written for you, & the little documentations of love, & the secret smile at corners of my mouth (in regard), And those trees everblowing more and more orange everyday! Like to change the seasons, already! And the full hunter's moon, tonight, which is why then I stopped to bleed, which is why I urge vocally in silence for you to return to me, this subtle soft sour I have for you, to glean in these bright fields, to roam among my fattened deer. & something about the excitement, feeling heartbroken when hearing a peice of music or reading something tantalizing, and falling in love & dying in the same moment at the fear awe of something so bewildering, so great; and this all of this is a bit like that but without the right words to describe. Every minute & then again every week-end. But my moon is bright and my deer are fat. And my arms stay open late.

active dreamscapes.

"Love is the mystery between two people, not the identity." This from The Magus. Same I think as the sentiment: love is the possibility identifying two such people, shrouded in its mystery.

meanderings

don't know why I'm listening to it... nostalgi. Leaves on the tree outside drooping, sad. New york cried yestersday, sits silent, emotionless now. Only I know there's a missing. My own spirit heavy. The heft aware of it I am and also that to work hard & up I'll have to. Just to not sorry myself away, oblivionwards. My little room scented still so thickly, my bed still sunk in the middle & sanded, crusts. The little articles laying about. Dropped & left in their places like to walk in the room he will @ any moment (just noticing the sand lizard & the sand turtle in an apparent 69, a yin and yang), the musics, my unsmilingness can't help it. You are too worthy for let a haiku to belittle you.