Cruise with Her

Words play with her mind in the gutter and

Slave away at the roughage inside her together

With her friends, imaginary people on planets dancing

In rhythm with the oceans, the nightly glow, the

Hummingbirds sleeping in nests. She bats her eye

lashes and says Nothing is quite as high as the mountains

By the river, no. She is nothing without her imagination

But another stranger lost in the nation where farce and

Feces co-stagnate mildly, subtly, irreverently while Trump

Sends postcards to his enemies in Asia and the Pacific.

We-all came over, surprised her, with luscious chocolates and science

Papers chock full of the latest research on psychoneuropharmacology.

How swell, to see that a pair of blank eyes can fill with wonder when

Mystery crosses their canvas; how delicious to be one of the strangers

Who knew her and saw the look on her face when she gleamed Hi!

At her visitors in the room in the sky. I forgot where exactly it all happened,

But someone somewhere remembers, and duly writing it down

Journalistically or otherwise makes the splendour all charge into a bolt

Striking the rods in the plains of the Midwest like race cars. No

One judges. No one indulges quite like her. And crybaby scenery and

Rollerballs slash through her nightgown as she is delivered with grace

To her fans over the cruiseliner where bowling and night caps dance

With more strangers, no longer. I came upon the chance to meet her, like

This, missing something but not aloof; wondering how it all came to be that

She and I should meet at all. Never wanted to be alone but solitude is the

Greatest blessing for one another and individuality is the journeyman on

The journey to and fro, back to the basics, under the style of dwelling.

Mystery me, we share! And what we share–oh my, delightful. Well, to put

It lightly, there was no sweat off either brow as the ship slept on the water

And crept up on the nightly dawn in the ocean breeze. We all journeymen know

Like the mountains on the island to which we are delivered that horns and trinkets

Make a raucous monster feel qualm, and that celebration is the key to surviving

The sullen melancholy of another dilemma and another and another…

Nothing sits, but we all do. And together, standing off, wanting more but licking

At the steak sauce in the hive with lemon balm and grass. It is finality that kicks

The collective butts of her groupies and the dress on her body. Sea men see that

No one has the guts to bawl at the lord over the sunset. No one has it. No one has it

At all.

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