poetry

Hey everyone,

something's bothering me.

In browsing the books of our beattyland blog,
I get giddy and smile, like 5 times a minute,
the little boy child inside me again,
so close-

But poetry. Here's my issue:
human bodies live in rhythms. Our heartbeating pattern,
our ceaselessly breathing
in fresh or air that is salty or hot,
involuntary, we live by the seconds,
slaves to our patterns, adapting our rhythms
It's why i love Shakespeare and
Marlowe and techno,
there's something so natural, chilling and sexy
wetting dry holes of cracked clay, and tough bellies
fed satisfyingly *bum bum* like that drumbeat
that twitters your heartstrings and tapping your right foot
you're stuck in the sweetness of rhythmical beauty
a magical pleasure inside, in our systems
and thoughts, electricity sparkling away
ah ha HA! there you feel it? the beats of the living
clap clap to your bare chest and try to deny it,
the rhythm, like sunlight, is always alive!
above death, behind dark, under rocks that are mossy,
the ocean is cleansed by it, babies are born by it,
dancing is sought through it, thinking adheres to it,
whenever you see a hearse go by
you wonder what rhythm you feel when you die -
or is that where the Death is, the end of the quest for us,

rhythmless.


A girl told me today that she could see herself spending the rest of her life with me. I am on a raft, and it's funny when somebody else wants to jump on. I'm a pretty darn good river guide, and for once someone else noticed. Here's to our last 4 weeks of Santa Cruz.