Friday, April 11, 2008

It is spring, I should be planting leaf plants right now. What phase is the moon in, not digging in the ground phase, this I am certain, it doesn't feel that way. I lose the connection here in this collection of tin boxes. I just sit here looking at the ground, it is an ugly greenish brown, with no heart and no soul, sucked dry of its primary purpose, to make way for lawns and the occasional patch of window box flowers gone astray. The tarmac a stark contrast, broken in so many places, waiting to depart, hungry for demise, to empty horizons and fresh new earth, turned gently to expose the new seeds of germination. Release the carbons of ages, and the gases of the underworld to heat the atmosphere with its hot temperance. Thin bladed stuff this grass, not holding much and producing even less, kept short so it will be pretty to the uncultured eye.Do you not see this as a common trait, an ancestor of the late and nearly forgotten fruits of the forest that once thrived before the development of massive over production of human waste.

This as the ground slips away from me here, black with hate, cold with frost, and sick with chemicals dumped through the ages from commercial concern. My diesel powered fever, throbbing in my heart, waiting to be released on some real earth, some chocolate turf sweet with acidic desire for carnal carrion and noir liquids. This is the caramel carriage that flows through the now empty defunct streets, signaling the last visage of human kind, the last perfection of beauty, a copper sorrel backside, used to pull plows and carriages, with feathered feet, and unkempt manes, they are rebounding alone with the oxen, to awaken the black gold of truth and new earth.

That is why I am sitting here listening to the rain, planning my revenge on mankind, by asking have you planted a tree, will you plant your seeds this year, because I am just waiting for the right phase of the moon to begin planting mine.

Sleep well;
James

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