Monday Morning At Starbucks Camino Real Plaza
3-6-06 Notebook Utterance
Run, Rabbit. Find the bluebirds. Easy lay is death. The movie goer is the womb lover. Home is where you head for at twilight. 8 O'clock in summer. So quiet. You can hear love talk under the trees among the lights in Westwood. Home again. In the clean restaurant with the woman of pure eyes. So clean they make the rain run straight. Everything else is distraction. No talk. Car & wheels & running music. That's baby talk. Her Holiness The Queen of Love. She was born of the foam of the sea say some. Some god's lost genitals. More rumors from The Golden Mountain of fairy tales. The sea is dust to the lovers. The sea is paint. Man & woman & the city. Stasis at the bus stop. A calm night for the unhurried lovers. They have names unspoken to the grinding sea. Apprentice sailor gods have been pounding the ocean to coax it into butter. 444,000 years are as one hour to Aphrodite The Most Beautiful. Long slow haul of the briny deep. Yellow moon is butter to the jaundiced eye of noon. Memory plays with people & makes sport of their history. The lovers walk slowly their lovely hands intermingled with quiet force. Unstampeded by the herd of shrill night talkers. The night is a movie theatre. The rare students on the sidewalk are eloquent. A few stars pierce the upper canvas. They rock the black waves of night with bone-clean light. The lovers know essential things. Underneath the trench coats & street lamps & the shy nervous glances of fugitives & phrase makers, the whispered summaries of a day that never happened. Sit in the cafe & drink eachother's Silence-----the royal nectar of lovers. Do not say it & make it unhappen.
RLG
Run, Rabbit. Find the bluebirds. Easy lay is death. The movie goer is the womb lover. Home is where you head for at twilight. 8 O'clock in summer. So quiet. You can hear love talk under the trees among the lights in Westwood. Home again. In the clean restaurant with the woman of pure eyes. So clean they make the rain run straight. Everything else is distraction. No talk. Car & wheels & running music. That's baby talk. Her Holiness The Queen of Love. She was born of the foam of the sea say some. Some god's lost genitals. More rumors from The Golden Mountain of fairy tales. The sea is dust to the lovers. The sea is paint. Man & woman & the city. Stasis at the bus stop. A calm night for the unhurried lovers. They have names unspoken to the grinding sea. Apprentice sailor gods have been pounding the ocean to coax it into butter. 444,000 years are as one hour to Aphrodite The Most Beautiful. Long slow haul of the briny deep. Yellow moon is butter to the jaundiced eye of noon. Memory plays with people & makes sport of their history. The lovers walk slowly their lovely hands intermingled with quiet force. Unstampeded by the herd of shrill night talkers. The night is a movie theatre. The rare students on the sidewalk are eloquent. A few stars pierce the upper canvas. They rock the black waves of night with bone-clean light. The lovers know essential things. Underneath the trench coats & street lamps & the shy nervous glances of fugitives & phrase makers, the whispered summaries of a day that never happened. Sit in the cafe & drink eachother's Silence-----the royal nectar of lovers. Do not say it & make it unhappen.
RLG
posted by rlg at 12:50 PM
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