smellbuddhagirl

Rocking and a rolling, school yard jazz, talking to your mom
do  you think I care?
out of shape biker, caught left side road pregnant like rabbits
and you can see the sky clearly..

the lake, the sky, the divine earth, everything is in a state of ecstatic union
rivery roads, as the dwellers murmur
sacred nothing
one
all things complete eachother
like a spirally mirror tube tunnel planty flower
olan dita... you are here...
I LOVE YOU FLO!!
POMO!!! you rock... these... worlds...
like a rocking chair,
even the dust is like 'grandma!'
my head is ringing, but its silence
full with silence, like bread... they started baking...
rest is the wandering
the wondering, the breathing
warm inside with you in my heart as me in your heart
in a heart in a heart
flowers grow, trees tall... kabir said they are poems across the sky
so i say nothing.. cha! meepingatorie thusness
all has revealed itself here, in fullness
though i know not its meaning, i am not dead!!!
indeed everything is alive...just by being, it is liberated
from what? no clue! love's a crazy game
the world reveals itself as the world
our minds are reflectors, projectors
openings for the river of life
streaming up, touching upon this notion
existence, preserved and free
what is music?
what is time?
what is newness?
I hardly know ye, yet you rock me...
yet I find myself unknown and loving, hugging
appearing in the wood, that old leaf everythinging
the woody city, towns... listen or whatever it is ya do they say
should i describe? I only am the note
a moment's name, So Come A Way
everything is sweet
somehow all feel it, we ar free in time
for i am some one
and you are some one
we are someone together

i would like to share with you something om 'matrika shakti' ...

Matrika (the power of sound inherent in the letters of the alphabet)
is the source of limited knowledge.
Shiva Sutra 1.4

When Parashakti - who is also called Citi Bhagavati, the universal
Consciousness - limits Herself, She manifests in the form of matrika,
the group of letters, or sound-syllables. Matrika is the cause of
one's pain and pleasure. all the thoughts and feelings that arise in
the mind - happiness and unhappiness, desire, agitation, love,
expectation, and jealousy - are the work of matrika. Neither
language, nor terminology, nor poetry, nor scriptures, nor words of
praise and blame can pass beyond the world of letters.

Matrika arises from the heart, from the inner speech. There are four
levels of speech corresponding to the four bodies. Everyone is aware
of the speech of the tongue. It is called vaikhari and corresponds to
the gross body. With the subtle intellect, one can also know the
second level of speech, which is in the throat. There, words have
taken form but have not yet emerged. This level is called madhyamah
and corresponds to the subtle body. At a deeper level, words exist in
the heart. This is the third level of speech, pashyanti, which
corresponds to the causal body. Here, words are hidden, and what
arises at this level is matrika. Beneath this level, parah, which
corresponds to the supracausal body. Some say that parah is in the
navel region, but in actuality this subtlest level of speech pervades
everywhere. Since it is all-pervading, it can be known anywhere.
Matrika has its source in the parah level.

Letters combine to form a word - for example, m-a-n-g-o becomes
mango. Each word has its own meaning, the meaning creates its own
image, and that image has its own feeling.

Whenever an image is created in the mind, one experiences an emotion,
whether it is happiness or unhappiness, friendship or enmity. For
example, if I call someone a fool, the letters come together and
compose words, the words compose a sentence, the sentence has it's
own meaning and the meaning creates it's own image. When I utter a
sentence "That girl is a fool," it strikes her, and a painful and
angry feeling arises in her mind.

Matrika creates infinite images. If one doesn't identify with the
images or their objects, one doesn't experience suffering.

Matrika is the source, not only of our pleasure and pain but of this
entire universe. This world has arisen from the sound-syllables of
the Sanskrit alphabet, which are nothing but matrika. Just as it
creates the outer world, matrika creates infinite inner worlds.
Different feelings arise in the heart, and the individual soul keeps
moving among these feelings throughout it's life, experiencing pain
and pleasure. Day and night, the matrika shakti creates these things
within us. Even when we sleep, it doesn't sleep. It is alive even in
the savikalpa state of samadhi, the samadhi with thought. It dies
only when one attains the state of thoughtlessness, nirvikalpa
samadhi.

Matrika is the source of the three malas, the impurities that cause
knowledge to become contracted. Due to anavamala, one feels
imperfect; due to mayiyamala, one becomes lost in duality; and due to
karmayamala, one becomes caught up in the fruit of one's good and bad
actions. Instead of understanding that one is the Self, one
understands oneself to be a mere human being. One feels, "I am a
man," "I am a priest," "I am a woman," "I am thin," and in this way,
one makes oneself small. In the inner space, matrika shakti creates
letters and one experiences them. One begins to dwell in them, one
becomes infatuated with them, and as a result, one performs actions
in this world. This is worldliness.

However, just as matrika helps us to contract, it also helps us to
expand ourselves. The moment one understands the matrika shakti and
its work, one is no longer a human being. When the matrika shakti
expands within, in this very body, one becomes Shiva.

Sit quietly and watch the play of matrika shakti. Watch how the
matrika gives rise to letters, how the letters compose words, how the
meaning of the words compose images in the mind; watch how you become
involved in these images.

The yogi pursues matrika shakti; he watches it and makes it steady.
He brings it under his control, he manipulates it any way he likes.
He turns evil thoughts into good thoughts. The matrika shakti works
according to his will. Such a yogi is called a conqueror of the
senses.

One who understands the play of matrika shakti and makes it still
rises above pain and pleasure. One cannot attain peace as long as he
is driven by the play of matrika shakti. For this reason, one has to
practice yoga. Through yoga, the movements of the mind are stilled
and the power of matrika is overcome.

An exerpt from the Shiva Sutras 'Nothing Exists That Is Not Siva'
by Swami Muktananda - A Siddha Yoga Publication
Published by Syda Foundation


om shree matrayaii namaha

the colors have always been around
the colors are our friends
to be stoned and write poems
to eat ash and live without speed
to take in tiny details no one else will ever find
where the purity has grown silently for millenia
A shamanic journeyer rises unestranged but deranged in thanklessness,
lifted by the tides
sailing on a moment's husk
between the breweries of mountain witahstitee
and an old guitarist's existential busk
there are rivers but no roads to the place that we are from
have we all forgotten, thinketh the steering wheel, peeling paint from
shattered eardrums
from so many masterpeices, dissected by children, found boring
so that now the fields, they run with the honey
of bees without knees, the bees that I see
buzz on, soveriegn infinity
though your rulers are in fact, mere inches from sun of solitude
again... we are back in the sky againsts the ground
from the tall pining trees and the brambles, and thick goings and coming
bubblings with stomachs like anvils
full of toothpaste, singing symptom songs, thinking the fern is a bong

but do not seriously think of the fern as a bong, I'm just glad we're
all getting along
have you seen any swan?
the emancipation of don juan, and little japanese nature kits
my womb, like an old angel sang... free noam
and free roam... and gave birth to the animals...
it was becoming too much, to be understood, so rushed
like the wind
like the peace pondered pockets of my loving daffodil head
upon a train
but opening the windows, giving up 'in sane'
in chimes and in lines the song these cities sing
giants, made of meteors and other wild and semantically violent
things, caterwalls and caterpillars
and things that always swing
and we ask our mother and father figures to tell us stories of dragons
in the back seats of station wagons
dragging fingers through rainy windows, this, here, squint and oh its
the end of all our days
theres no time so...
Wanti Foreva!!!
going out in a blaze....
i mean going out in a blaze...
wait i mean now its really over..
its ending at some point
like an uninvented bicycle melts in Spring
as if to say 'please fuck the revolution'



did you hear theres uncaused joy rambling round sublime in the towns and cities?
in the rafters, in hearts and minds and hands of people!
they say it just blew in on little winds
like the sages of old, the fairy tribes
oh how our aching hearts have been unbent in time
dripping clean the residue of stagnant clustered years
now up and aloft on streams of thought without fear
for once I saw a man, a random man, saw to the soul
it was like a hatching egg, becoming gold
he looked at me and I looked at him
he said hello
i said yo
he spoke about his travels in the land of mexico
and I told him of your silly musings partly for which I love you so
For all these happening, all nothings in the embrace of true love
and love that carries us on
potent like static in the rug, as every tub overspills and out come
forgotten things from every home
saying we're going back to sleep
we're going back to be free
this shelf life had a place for me but now I'm going back to be free
back and forth and north in freedom's course
for unhappyisms its wondered what can be worse

all the stories stopped their telling
and then were real this love begetting
its everywhere do you know its name
the touchable flame,
fabled unfuckable dame, all the same,
the skies and all the streets and every body
so amazingly happy
who needs to talk or breathe?
the colors are our friends
the panacea is belief

chud lives here
seeking the quiet hills
will you lay in the lap of  the full moon madre?
love is love
he replies,
his mind of weather matics and all
the sex symbol politicians
but how could we ever know that
you only know what you feel
if you feel what you know
and wind songs have no meanings

orange morning
hints of irish whiskey
and the rock and roll thoughts
pitter in me bones
daffodil
lidofadelia tell me
where is the waterhouse to kick this moonbounce
nowaday's our hearts r sweet lemons
the fake cop pulls us over
spurned in the anecdotes
of her technicolor cycling dreams
and somewhere far off
sweet felicity with her scarf of weeds
amen
oh the nonduality!
this napping festival

I was thrown in jail for impersonating a philosopher and my buckets were taken from me, each night I counted every star in the sky, and I would wallop when I remembered my name
the elderly loved me, the youth feared me and to all those in between I was simply known as Deony Velaro, Happy Stone. I had many travels throughout the realms of O which I shall recount here.

I awoke pon the mountain, my guitar cushioning my head, the contents of my pack scattered across the jagged rocks, I was alone as the sun's sweet rays came across my first, instilling me with the will to carry on, and to sing my song. Today was the seventeenth day of my hermitage, and my heart had grown like the kale in the gardens of my youth, boundless, in my song I was as the weeping willow, quiet brushing of leaves and air, strung out, intertwined in the strings of this blessed instrument. Aye, and I wailed on, and God was in the trees, in my knees, in the fresh mountain air.

Tiny fae's began to gather upon my musings, and fade into the night, I myself was humble then, too humble to speak and seeking only this hermitage, perhaps it was the silence that had spawned them. Once more my face crushed into the pillow, thoughts of your knowing smile echoing through my mind, I reached for the markers, and in an instant I was upon the walls, staining them eternally with an unhinged love for the Goddess, trees poured out, flowers, and mushrooms, fae's poured out, and also hearts and rainbows, so many beautiful unnameable things, soon I was once again still and silent. 

I caressed myself, gently through my light green makeshift jump suit, as the stone that I sat on seemed to burn with an inner fire, this place was indeed Hell. Yet I was happy, for my mind had been turned sideways in the turmoil of last night's love making, and the campfire ashes lay testament to this fact, for they now cover both my cheeks, and dot my abdomen, spots where Spirit had seen fit to take visible action. Spot's where I was so firmly rooted, I could not get out of the way in time.

You left me there, you teased me for so long, you left me with a head full of hippy dreams and hippy ways, upon a highway outside of the city, while these amazon girls roamed my mind, extolling their ecofeminist virtues and strange tribals ways all the while making mincemeat of all MY ambitions. Why I brought up enlightenment they just suggested looking in the river, innocently, but I knew their motives were deviant, perverted, and sexual by nature.

Fortunately, I was able to acquire enough sacred plants to ward them off, except for one who stayed, she was my love, her hair like something from some old cartoon, and her voice, was the river running. Something in me began to shout, for I had seen her before, now waiting to get picked up, my only desire was to once again attain that state of stonedness I had so long ago, I knew that perhaps by honoring the directions, and my ancestors, cognizant of their illusionary essence I would return to a peace greater than before conceived. Our embrace through the sweater made for two was encouraging, and our thoughts were firmly on the divine, Wanti was alive, the entire world in love.

We commenced the meditation, your eyes were everything, I looked there seeing so much, here I am overcome by love, in seizure-like heavings, the power of our love, takes me, unabashed throughout my entire life, making everything right, with you by my side, my twin flame, my lover! Of course, it was only on late nights, sometimes without a phone and sometimes with wierd little teacups that we were able to commune as was described by the first philosophers, but it did not matter, because it was the warmth of our joined bodies that seemed to contain all things good and lush and wholesome, and I had even forgotten about the mustard incident a few days earlier, when a young poet had spoken of love, and the world had caved in completely, still rearrranged that cosmic muck from which I extracted myself from all surroundings and began upon this path alone, that was were you found me, eating sticks and collecting the genius of the salamanders who hide under rocks by the shore.

There was magic in the old logs, still!

So I slept there on the next day, the voices of the temple goers, running through my mind, cascading back to that place where I knew that all was you and you alone, suddenly, deep in a relaxed state, I felt that there was nothing, and I had no fear, for the elements conjoined and multiplied, joy struck like a lightning bolt unfounded in the hearts of man and beast alike, in the trees a subtle hum, the sound of the future! The fairy nations beating their drums. A cosmic joke, never make eggs in a wind storm, for they came hatching upon the pan, tiny chicks! I was touched, and took them in, they still reside there, by the window sill, gazing out daily at the foliage of so many years. That is why, beyond the old hotel rooms, where I used to sleep, I do not venture very far. I am not afraid, but I am quiet, very quiet

and I don't take kindly to strangers.

For they come in the night, saying, I owe very much, the cat in the corner, and the illustrious dawn which brings my back down these mountain paths, naked, and happy, like a babe, dragging the guitar, the invincible, hair a flutter in the wind, or so I imagine, the great buffalo herds pass by and I am reverent, for once it is the builders who have fallen asleep upon my brow, wiping them off I do not make a murmur, and lo, across the plains, as the buffallo rumbled off there appeared the beginning of the day. I meditated again, I knew I was dying, I reached out for you then...

clear mind unstruck whatever, nonexistent

Lets hide away

deep within the earth where all manner of foolishness is barred, where one can be at peace in subterranean delight, humming with the same old tune of Gaia. I knew at once it was my home and Flo had befriended all the gnomes as I lay and sway writing and withering such deep content unknown to me in high places. I had come from a rather gruesome land before where they knew me as some kind of daftish whore, who blew the rings forever more of smoke of ness and found the door having slain the snake in the hole who brought terror among the land, the revolution of the golden loving diamond of 10 began upon the full moon, and I underground happy to wait here with you love, hidden away so as to be out of the way so the world would not be shy. Aye!
oh the angels and
tree trunks roots
oh bless it all
iyatolla ervidori nu
donady
drawn up again by the warm sun's sweet grin
or is it all a dream?
air is brisky you fill me with simple feeling like the stories our songs the rolling wind and caressing sweet music lingerings wherever waltzing like the beat of our twin hearts you suprise me hands of leaves in a hug like rainbow butter back again free moon kiss sun lick trueness and dumb luck floating, oh to dance in the streets kindest criminals of communal love yet it shines divinely love is the law, fun is a trail the spirit of averdaley myamo belly rubs adorre and at the door of the old house where we explore disintegration waiting is a virtue, its patience the dull walls longing then smacked by some ecstatic notion we're old like marmots entangled & bemused
sulos is old words for the old and new words for the new
we aall found true love it was after the revolution revelation, damn like that aon and on tho life is fast love is an eternity
Pomo bless all of it
the silly sensual games, the everchanging names, there was nothing left to veil
I remember it from when I was a wee lass..

Ah delightful, delightful day, your sweet voice ringing through my head, finally, everything is divine and always, and true love. The dinner table banter, our days journeys my mother, and the wonderful food, my father and the squeaky plates, me wondering, now how did I become mixed up in all of these families, for I am an island alone waving, sweet ghost of my love, ringing, oh she makes no sense, you yummy shaman of providence, she says, I bow, I smile, I think of how my mom describes the local mart, the niceness of the passerby of the neighborhood, oh delightful, delightful. I bless the food, reminding myself of Kerouac, and even now, so you know theres revolution in the air, in the stars, the fairies, the nature spirits, all the wanderers, coming back home, settling into tomes and trolleys, probably all of them having given up the seeming wonder that had hardened them on roads to pass, me? I flight on the birdsongs, dayani, ina one half and one half, walking the kids talking, of how the pirates had uploaded with sweet sweet in a high school bathroom, I laughed the same place where I had gone to blaze the fruit of my naivete, such inspired times, such wisdom, such inherent and over spilling secrecy, I could imagine it happening. It was Aiden who told me the story, I was back in town, a bit regretful to have revealed myself, having dreamed of resigning myself to a recluse like lao tzu, or syd barret, or just my old self. Still who am I but a vessel, bringing words of revolution, and wantism and they smiled, and understood, aquarius and all that. The pines spoke to her, the rain came when she was stoned and musing, though no one understood, the rhombuses! What a world this is, what is it coming to, and yet it is all perfect in the right light, we agreed. The fairies had much part in it, and latter I sent them texts saying you know love forever and all is sulos in ones heart, feeling like a prophet, but wanting none of it, it is my humble duty, as the wisest fool, I'll have to remember to carry around my paint, to draw the walls. Here is my home, in this sea of love even an island is never alone, truly, though so it may appear, all their words and hearts and feelings come trickling through the atmosphere, and ones being is amongst all, as it should be.

I walked out far into the woods, beyond the sounds of the cars, or any technoligical madnesss, oddly after I walked for some time I saw at top of a slight incline there was a doorway with no walls to speak of, and through yonder portal a small school desk and a shelf, behind which sat a small figure wearing stockings of many colors, magenta, cyan, and turqoise, its hair was a mane of brown and orange, its face mostly shrouded in the strands, holding its head in its hands. As I approached a shrill and comical voice encouraged me to 'step into my office' I had difficulty distinguishing gender, the best I could gander was 'muppetish'. Apprehension stiffened me, but step in I did, grasping tightly the lucky acorn in my pocket, for protection, as I did, the wood was transformed, and all its myriad leaves seemed like the notes of some celestial symphony, the grandness of it seemed a bit bourgoise, and I was put back.

"Welcome to my abode, Mica," its said
I finallly got a glimpse of its face, it was the face of Yonaeli, the elf mage. She pointed to the sky, I looked up and fell into a dream.

I was on the highway, the road going by trees, clouds, everything passing the rain, there was a storm going on, every so often the entire sky would light up like the daytime, though I had the distinct impression it was late at night, the radio, was only static, but it kept playing relentlessly, you were in the driver seat, we were going so ridiculously slow as you spoke of many things.

"Never give up your point," you were saying matter of factly, "Even if your wrong, keep going at it, that way you can never be wrong,"

I was just silent, in my heart, I pined again for the taste of ayahuasca and lettuce, for the sight of my homeland, and for my loving wife, but in the meantime, your stories were beautiful. I cried silently, but you didn't notice, lost  in recollections of the 60's were apparently, long clawed bears had rescued you from a wolf attack upon your moonlit encampment,  and just as you were thanking them with the last of your nettles, you had to run off because they turned on you, and thus you were driven back to city life.

"Oh Margie, I don't know how you ever sustain such a life, you're like a god."

"Goddess! Yes, I know!" I didn't turn to look but the tone of your voice told me you were smiling that old familiar Margie smile, I wanted to be sad, but I wasn't. 'I Am' I thought, or at least I think I am, ah the yoga of these days.

"So as we all ramble off into the destruction of this planet, just as with the stars where do you think our souls will go, in the end? or do we just end right there, our consciousness gone, but the molecules reuses into something else, I mean i definitely don't remember what it was like to live on a star."

Then I woke up.

I was startled to see the leaves again and their calming melodic vision, I looked at Yonaeli, she was typing something into her laptop, or at least it seemed like a laptop, within there appeared to be a being of light.

"Oh you're back! Its about time." She said.

I wondered what was in store next... but to know that none of it was real, and that none of them knew anything, beyond this, they were all simply users of the words and spirits of the heart, of our hearts, boons of such a love, that is only a symphony unrenounced and certain, life it would seem is the passing of karma as it is done up from dreams, fantasy, and desire, but it is only those who speak of it, who will ever be known, and only those who are great liars who will ever be believed, because it is the lies, or should we say the stories which are the fabric of life, without which there is nothing, whatever, neither real nor unreal, and so stories have gone on from the beginning.

No one had ever left me, but it was there residing with Yonaeli, away from the sciences and the knowing, where we both admitted to knowing nothing, to have murdered ourselves long ago and found in that sweet call something never before ascribed. In telling it, perhaps it is destroyed, but it is its growth, and it can't be undone, its just fate. I fell in love with her there, among the leaves, and had forgotten all the rest.

Lollygagging and in tuned with all, we simply sat there, and did things, that I will not record, not because of their sacreed quality, but out of a vulgar poetic sense... drunk, like the spirit of the domovoi, following blindly the sun and the moon, without moving. Antelopes, and slain warriors, all was stagnate, yet there were winds to blow away the sadder parts of the day, and memories humming in our chest. Only a quick drink, the riverside, blues, so many suggestions unexplored, her face, the future years, names were not at all true, and yet it was all revealed, beyond appearances, there, guided in plain sight but so far from veiw. I died to myself, and took up the Pomo's call, the hawks truth swaying on clouds, picnic tables, hunger, and death. So much abound upon where we extracted being from so much stored fruit.

Disjointed and bewildered. As I read the books my mind complained, because...

"Because there is no sense, we will never die." No one would take credit anymore

sleeping, the revolution stirred, unheld, and yet like a babe in the waves, happy to never have seen a new thing, all feigning at minty removals our a blatant torn Pastaphori's attempt at converting the others. We never took up travelling but we would sit around that office watching the shrubs grow taller, in a carpet of leaves, arranging them sometimes, and sometimes professing strange and wonderful loves, not truly knowing their source, nor their meaning, but we stayed, perhaps intersected by the dimension of spirit which is often left unexplored, the nature of things, all anew and vast, its true, we were together, and yet I had never known any of it, thats why I quested for sleep, as the grail, and the night time was the owl's promise. He came in a maelstrom of heat and buffing teeth, comprimising our solitude, yet welcomes fully for novelty.

Sex was never the answer, still fucking brought back the pain like no other, my auburn toothbrush, stuck like a tree within the dirt, never had I wondered why the little bearded men of the fairy tales so desecrated themselves in rhyme and woe, so I was distanced and again, finding myself alone, I pulled the soccer ball from That.

I knew it was me, within their cities, building up upon their heads, and the entire universe, the mushroom in bloom upon the hill, in nothing, relation and relaxation, extolling to all cosmic spirits, all notions of nothing and punky brewsters, filling their hats with logical effervescence forever and ever, but only metaphorically, as I wytipodated. Feeling I there was no one else, this selfishness seemed to be the best, though the revolution was a cold cry, inside, upon my chest and legs, there grew groves like upon no other lady, of course, it was unknown to them at the time, that the inscriptions where only pink because of our marriage, delayed and on the brink of harmony, these words are the cosmic diamonds and hold no truth but being here, she rollicked on a bolted ladle, hanging upon the wall, where for once the kids had let themselves go, the enthusiasm so high in our voices, but what did it mean?
we laughed at the insignificance of the question, honestly our lives were the dullest, but bemused and waiting, and the arts, tied upon us for no reason, this was freedom, you'd often say, toting your feathery eyebrows. I didn't know but it felt right. Such bliss, it was related, perhaps to everything.

Then one night, upon the couch, or no it was the bedside, holding and orange, and far away from anything, looking into the frail white speckle, everything came back to me, but it was there, and I was here, it was within that light reflected in that one drop. Where was the story, the adventure, the wars, everyone had gone home and admitted non existence, I will murder that buddhist motherfucker who comes to my door with nonsense, I will honor the Arden wind.

Please pardon, my husband, he cannot be trusted, his statements are inspired by the voices of amiable ones, sometimes I just want to make nice like a dragonfly, but then the sun hides behind clouds, and so clothes have come upon us, these are nice things, he'll say, but I often wonder, why so much sudden joy, am I the only one who remembered being sprawled out like cicadas in a desert garden, and the last rose in that desert garden, I am washer of the sun, and sweater of the cold, mom of minty moments, and pronouncer of peace. But the proclamations are my only fault, and yet its not yet done, when I speak them I get this ecstasy, then is fades, as if I have killed myself with words, the only thing to do then is watch time.

Of course I knew she was with the government, not her, but the other one, the ones who talked about lawn enhancement, but those who live upon stars and marvel for sweet loss upon regal ointments never will understand and never did care. Those who know will speak and those who don't sometimes listen.

Hey, man, do you have a light? Just understand what sobriety feels like, just understand, for long enough our wilapo, we like the pretend, humble to the end, set your heart to the Pomo, dreams, and dreams, its late Mica lets sleep
why all these trails, so when we die
there can be nothing, when we die, within these cycles of time. Hug the dashboard like a mexican hat to your chest, lick the rain like someone forever warm, leap with the dragons sometimes, for the rest, know a place, or at least say you know a place. Everyone breathes but lets forget about it for now...

I woke up, but I was not dying.

honestly, I have no idea what we're talking about anymore

yeah, but it was cool as heck to say those words though

yeah! wow...

the hemp convention, blues, grape juice

I thought about the snake again, it was too be he had to go, for in retrospect he was a good enough fellow. And here avast, upon a quest for something, more tantalizing to the mind, to restore the rust(ic) upon my soul where before it was only the humorous note of unabashed worship and devotion to true equality in nature and only confident which brought upon a kind of rushed edge to all things, and been supposedly a deathblow to the revolution which had actualy amassed a greater truth, a greater, different vision of the world, where there seemed to be many worlds and elements at play even in this one world, where one goes here and there, among these and those colors, we don't even know what  we don't know. I set out, postponing any pretense hermitage to procure, the sacred herb.

coming upon old friends who drink. they told their stories of the fire, and stupidity, and of joy and 1st degree burns and I laughed. The day had begun with the peacuful makeshift samurai, casting off his wooden sword by the roadside, 14 sunflower seeds, pocketed from a mysterious pile of mulch, and shouts of blatant ecofeminism, as they cut down yet another tree. I was able to replant the cutting, may it grow, and grow.

We got the herb, and rode about, there was no school by the authority of some strange coin divination in the front seat, we rode far, increasingly paranoid and alternatively riled up in faith, and our piousness in partaking of such sacrament. I was good to be around the herb again, I smelled it in the bag, aroma, fragrance.

We drove far, to where the farms are, and ended up on some broken down potholed road, an old tree had fallen in a recent storm, bisecting the road, it was very beautiful and we were very stoned.