I have a weary soul.

The fruit market is over and is a past. My now's now consist of teaching four year old children how they should fit into this structure of smiles and gauges and dials where we all reside. I love the absurdity of small children. Its all talking platypus's and horses making grilled cheeses in the kitchen and tooting on monsters under the bed and certainly, most certainly, about not being the caboose. But I find that my soul is weary. And my mind is weary of words. But I can't stop using them to say what i mean and to mean what i say is utterly impossible these days. Dreams are wild and night visions are grueling and my stories have turned into sketches of my scattered mind that could be just a brain but that could also be just disguised as a brain and really made of the cosmos. i think. and hate that i think it. So I give you a sketch. Which is a story. of a moment. which is to say I hiked to a bamboo patch with jake and here is what i found...

Sheeee clo. Dwingsheeeeshhhh tip. tip. tiptrick. ta. tip.tip. washeeewoo. top. tock. there is in this bamboo village a squatting hamonica man. Told of the ode to joy. he learns the sacred notes to make all tunes into one metal tone from wind. but he is simple. "sounds like i'm having fun" he chuckles. "though this sound like shit to other ears. i am having beauteous fun" Sheeeshhhhh. tatippletipple. SHH. and a trickling on light shifts to my legs of the nile that are cradeled in the leaves. i am fresh here looking out the canopy of lovely. we came out to this no it came to us in a dream, racing to us is a quiet as we pace from a disparing city junglescape of guilty ground. passed that claw that clamps at the throat. past the traces of politic sins on concrete steet walks. seeing light and hearing water. a creek. that old church. simple. simple. and the faint yelling of city cries that told us it would be a little grayer without us there. but forget to tell us that it would forget us with the dawn of its next steel gray day. but we knew it would. and were not fooled into belonging.
we settle our minds into the SHHHCLo. the clockclop of the tops of the bamboo. and our drunken city minds go away for now. i am thinking of creating something from a dead bamboo stalk. a pipe. a man.a spoon. rummage around for nature tools. jake plays another tune. i tear my fingernail off trying to break a stick for my invention. i accept my bleeding thumb. sitting and listening is my new creation. and i am smiling at how everthing is happening. happening.