The philosophy of freedom fading as I am hasty,

my body contaminated,

my brain holding forgotten manuscripts.

You shouted terrible, measured things at the islands where the displacement of water meant something.

Demons drive on coffee, wine, gasoline with their sad dimensions of the theatre.

Sailing towards preoccupations of hopeful love as her boat lands in Greece

delivering sanctified saffron robes.

Our western cargo of debts slung in geometric stone patterns leaning to the left of art.

Golden

blue hued hypodermics reflected our poetic destiny.

Nevertheless;

words and comets and revolution and god and lingering lingers…

Driving the curved road we have confused service with orgasm.

The sea is deader than dying

stretched out

too everything for living…

i want to write a poem of all the vans and all their colors and all the places they saw.

i want to write a poem we can climb into as we relive the living, resurrect the theatre, sing revolution,

for the rest of my life…