The Ghosts Carousing Salvador
With extraordinary pieces of modern literature
all accumulated under the blue creativity;
soothing electric strains yet retaining a mood….
so it seemed we entered a room on the moon,
when, “Mmmwanna dim your soul?”
Sal scroll —simply aligned, synchronized,
autonomy in divisions subdued somewhere,
placed inside that gleam… he imagined me.
The juvenile concentrated at the art
of every attempt that will always not have enough
to live inside of every powerful movement;
and yet clearly expatiated his own;
which was just shorts with miniscule failures
somewhere in the mindsets,
glitches surfaced, coercing, juicing
thronging double-edged constrictions;
that, whether or not I wanted to face
the flashing certain anxieties and unexpected
flare-ups of irreversible corridors,
the permeations leaking to everywhere
inside of the overwhelmed Sal….
We were still solace
with Kalifornia credits scrolling
all to behold.
In the way Sal saintly pondered
me for a more legendary sort, “Mmm. Yes..”
His fresh shaved head turned
from the refracted pinching,
the slipped little shakes right there,
tremors or fidgets in some unnatural
all-masqueraded kind of presence
going simultaneously imploring
the smashed couches where we were sunk,
“but only –
f’ if we get out of here.”
So he sprung up, off, a confounded theory
as if becoming thin air rolled over
for an idea, answer, or a reply from myself,
that was already from himself;
then about released a stinging of worms
persuaded in quiet galaxies, mesmerized
then blipped right on through, reached
all in some smooth rapid continuous change
of the aforementioned flints, then nearly evaporating
from the original nothing at all;
perplexed; and my admiration and admiration,
in itself, something really celestial, slouched.
“Weeee need to break from thee hum_Mediate silences
and despair of these commonplace sub-engrosses
in films and wee need ummmm—Inspiral Carpets,-----
Yes, summmm inspiring indeed.. some magic.”
Then electro-shocked, plopped
back to the mashed couch,
and with some arrogant flourish
challenged thee old halo, the incredibly flawless,
tightness to his own hues, and he reiterated—“?—
you’re going tomorrow—Is that right?”
I consented—“mmYou betcha. But That’s
tomorrow; and you know what they say
about tomorrows right?”— “hmm?”—
“It’s never today. But now, now now there IS
tomorrow for you, and no –or- no there WILL
BE tomorrow for you now!” he beamed
and gooned, he typified then amused
in using his typical thick fingers for quotes,
triumph, and thus squinted, “Tomorrow,” wondering
simultaneously like he stood vice versa
with something unearthly, commiserated inside [ifyoubelieeeved_theyputamanonthemoon_manonthemoon]
and showed some of them verges
altogether assumed in touches of wicked,
sly phases way inside the coupled eyelashes
of a scar and patch. a gapped portion in one lid. .
Poked everywhere,
showed complete awareness of sleek access
to a remarkable character roughly sketched
in a reality yet by some common acquaintance;
and, likewise, inescapable atmosphere;
enlightened as much as a Holden Caulfield –like
with ambition wilder then Cody Pomeray,
or clearly and fully sharpened, damn fresh rage;
Salvador Dali-esque fascinated fantasy, “weee should
see some mountains
just hanging way out the rounded edges.
Weee should see the waters shrink
away to gorgeous shapes. Wee should squash flints
of impossible things even telescopes could not contain.
And and and Wee should immerse in the sky
blending to night and reach the moohoohoon…”
bursts zap, but all smiles, retracted flames ignited,
his lips corner, revealed, crafty, unusually
there amongst an unabridged profoundness
he inspired real real good, whispering, “tomorrow,”
with condensed and confounded quotation marks
using his entire hands; as on the outside,
his outside and the only place I could ever see
the weakening heart-struck flashes,
with a quiet timbre, Sal lavish.
—“Ahhh for just a fragment, we should stop
THERE this time…”
and through deeper monumental elevations,
some intellect in some incredible filled spirit,
shrills released down his insides,
and Sal literalized it, ideally in fidgets
and minor tremors knowing exactly where
we were headed. As if Tomorrow
were to be very real and very very
possible.