for my mother

deep in mushroom trips, i often see myself as becoming like my grandfathers ~ today i remembered (from morning to present—evening) i am not who i say i am, i am what i do with my hands

at this late hour, all things dissolve—all of us are together; this is the poetical imagination; it’s still new to me, still ominous; it is not an era for victory or satisfaction; it is a season for sighing, and lifting others up with our arms if our strength has held to this point

we are gonna save ourselves and each other; i write this through a psychic rainstorm of too much memory and imagination

this is incomplete but i love you

🥲 🌊

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waking back up to the liquidity of my real life, of life itself, of you over there, us separated by reading ~ perfect automatons fighting to become perfect for the spotlight this fall (always something to look forward to; this could be Your Year, Finally, after All That behind you — surviving is wild; wildflowers over the grave called the present—this is heaven but you’re older; the afterlife wasn’t supposed to begin like this

so you write another story, autobiography, tear some layers, listen to your soul: now your life is lined up for this, the spring wound tight, ready to burst, and you the loosener letting the flames up, a temper tantrum waiting in the wings, a show that must go on

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Geoffrey Lewis

Geoffrey Lewis

filling the blinking cursor with whatever comes up, letting the leviathan lead me to glory, singing popular music covers on video on Smule too, speaker, rambler