My Interprative 23

Paint me pictures in words
of blinding arms on trees
that disappear into a
palate of paint
so numerous of color,
that it drips opaque into
the dirty palm of a
day old beggar waiting
behind the stars.

Transport me to an ocean of grass.
Sing to me with
the noisy vibration of the bees
and the itching smell
of seed.

Walk me by a diamond encrusted body
flowing with easy grace,
and put your hand on my belly button
to stop the endless spinning
underneath my skin.

I have faith in that,
and I will walk on the forest.
Mourning constantly
that there's no more breeze,
but quietly brushing the
wet drops off my eyebrows
in thanks that I've been given
nothing but beauty to hold close
to my chest, when everything
else is falling.

When I reach the dead end,
that waits quietly and slowly
at the finish of some
grandfather's crab apple lane,
a white porch and a
rocking chair with my initials
carved in the arm.

I will sit there,
in the back and forth,
and the world will drop off
the edge, and roll away,
with the other rotting apples.

This is a daydream that speaks
of my satiated wanderlust.
And many years need to
tick along until it becomes
a reality.

So bring me to the crawling beauty
of the tundra, and feed my mind
with that everlasting air.
Give me a long gulp of it,
so the startling faces
of the caustic masses,
the empty stomachs of
the hurtling commoners,
the moonshine few
that wait for me in the bayou,
and those that stand on the roof
of the world with their carpet of dollars,
can only feel it's cleansing freshness
until it's time to end.