Praise Bob # 9
the sky everywhere I laugh...
Across the sky tore a crazed ripple, a wavering that I could barely see. It bothered me.

Had I been lying too long in the sun? Too much heat, no sleep. My forehead burned. I knew I was not red, though, this was more, it was the incensed sinking I'd been doing into the world, grieving, earth-dreaming, and you just can't do that, listen too hard, or it will drive you mad.

Think of ten thousand songs all played at ten thousand different volumes and you hear them all at once. They make sense, for that first bare instant, they do, and then the rush transcends and you are gone, too much, too many thoughts, too much life, too much death.

I knew a lady who died. My face shook when I heard because I'd seen her dancing magic man and he'd told me a story. I guess it is his tale that keeps her alive in me.

Rumble and wood-smoke, the mystery leads on, feather touch of idealism on a pine-needled forest floor, grasp of epiphany in the sunlight, a rising jubilant cry from rain. The colors come around and giggle and brush here, tickle there, meet and create her form. The smooth slickness of her skin stays on my mouth for days and days.

Brown decayed leaves are beautiful until you pick them up and feel the muck beneath, rub your fingers against the living creatures eating them. You decide you don't know how to deal with the dance of faery, possibility seeped bloody with missteps and unbreakable obstacles. Plastered across the newsstands fades a dead rock star and what are the people thinking who put his face there? Are they giving him his life back or making him the spokesman of the next alternative beer?

Lost souls, dead souls, Trent Reznor singing into the dreams of Poppy Z. Brite and the world lives on through a single tape well traveled by Nothing. Granted, vampirism isn't everything, but the darkly erotic appeals in those decadent moments when the outside air constricts, people crowd in, and there are just too many, too many of everything.

The sun is insane, I've figured that out just by staring into it and laughing at all the lies of going blind. It doesn't happen. The dangerous problem about learning things like this is often no one considers the consequences of their actions, our animal needs are usually too much in control and we just want to be satisfied, that's all. The worst is when you say you see, you see everything, and how can anyone do that?

"As a child I understood how to give; I have forgotten this grace since I have become civilized."
-- Chief Luther Standing Bear
Did you know that the tip of South America is often washed over with storms of rainbow so strong that most people who witness them go blind, see no other light at all. Just the rainbows, forever in their mind, endless laughing, painting, color madness. Just light, the endless messenger. Slipstream energy going far beyond mushroom spiraling, deep into self, into oneness, not self. Giving. That is the greatest moment and the weakest. Just like beauty, like love. Give too much, you die. It's inevitable that sometime you'll run out of yourself. But not give enough?

There is always the uncertainty, and I think there always should be. Confused? Hang on to the mystery, the metaphor, for it will take you through.

Where the grass stains on my jeans come from I don't know. The curled fragments are perhaps the earth writing all over me. I am home, red imaginary balloon having popped and sailed forth from my hands, my tasks done, no need for sleep, no worry of sunburn. The sky is alive, my friend. It can't hurt you. Pain, what is that after one earth-dreams and writhes through existential split-second thundering? Try it sometime, do it, lie down and feed, let the emotions come in. Powerful feelings are there when you listen carefully. If you last long enough to give some of your heart you might even survive.

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Praise Bob Issue # 9
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