Blueberry Head

From something that once sounded industrial

To the ambience of the electric hum

Our ears morphed with our consciousness

The sound the refrigerator makes is no longer strange but, a familiar something, a comfort

Standard, objects to be desired;

Somethings of dependency

Electricity and the subtle rule of industrious plastics and metals

Just above the head, they own their own islands, the planet is their beehive

Just below your feet the ground is stone and water, servants willingly tag along while some scream and, yell and, fight and curse

Blueberry heads bobble slightly above

Blue, I am

Sad, really tired and cold

Left of mystery in a small green paper container at the Saturday morning farmers market

Right in the middle, a cellphones illuminated capture sits in the hands of the traveler

Sub-dom cultural so callas, identify truth, spoken word, action, take note, intrude, try harder and keep the things we no longer need

All the wild growth and distraction from the dreamscape sits subconscious on top of landscapes

Country or concrete

Watches to much video

Captured by the police

Police sit silently or acquiesce

Violet mess

Love hurts like movies

Episodes of actors playing roles

Grand stage of holographic importance

Individualist either save them selves from one another or, die in protest for others

The next wars are going to be nothing like history has ever suppressed

Enjoy the comforts of social life while you’re still endowed at the middle, in limbo, satiated, common, with shelter

And, now

I’ll attempt to take a handful of these feelings into my mouth

Sour and sweet, organically grown