Schooner then later.

I worship the ground I walk on because it’s your ground.

It’s you that got me walking.

Up off the lazy-boy of life to move in every direction you wished me to go.

I-untie the slipknot from the dock

and push off-

no idea of the destination.

My sails spread wide ready to be touched by you, bracing for the moment we take off.

This is the last time I will have to excert any effort…-…waiting.

Tinkeling against the metal mass marks my pinch of anxiety.

Wondering what exactly is the propriety of,

“patiently waiting for a track to explode on”-to.

So I may embrace the race fully emersed-

so heavily I forget I’m even on water

         or a boat

                or afloat for that matter…

The disaster?

Never thanking Him for the wind.

- 7/8/2010

“I took you by the hand, and we stood tall.”

Languid linguine gets lost’s in linguistics… Especially when I say stuff like that.

My redundant idiotic idom’s are lost on you like two fleas on separate knees with signs that read “MacDougal street.” I bewildabeast mode just to to hear your up-ended question asking what the hell I just said.

Lost and found in translation.

We relearn language like Acoustic Neuroma Patients or chubby agitated chimps at the zoo who have pasty bald animals aggressively signing at them for bananas, bound to get one right.
Sarcasm can turn into explanations on literature and true motive while sexual innuendo seems to be the language spoken on the tower of Babel that everyone still secretly uses.

Nerve’s ending in soggy heart palpitation’s. The positive kind.

I speak in pink floral and leather, stuffed with flowers that last forever, the seeds at least. In Narnia’s narcotics, the solid block of chalk coated delights from Turkey, so the Brooklynese say. In a bouquet of TwoLips and LittleLies home grown from your motherland shipped across the sea for me to remind you to remind me of where you come from.
We’s speech is a white russian, a concoction that can’t possibly be good until you have 3 and suddenly it doesn’t matter much about taste anymore. I implore you that the ugly legalistic tongue you try to taste is good even if I think it’s Dutch mixed with Engl-ish.

You speak in Hans Christian Anderson and adventure.
“To Move to breath to fly to float to gain all while you give, to roam the roads of lands remote to travel is to live.”
Alst the while you care for kids as earnest as sincere, you dig you dream you laugh and scheme I dare say your my dear.

They say 90% of all communication is body language, not sure I believe the guy who told me through a long handshake.

I decided to cut out the eclectic middleman and see a silent movie with you. Your two blue hue’s from heaven abashedly blink code to love lymph nodes in my gut run by caterpillars tired of turning back to butterflies. Man those eyes. Comprised of electricity so powerful it would have Consolidated Edison.

Let’s add a word to our language that describes the comprised prize we won in finding one another, Heavenin’- for I found that I must expound that the ground we tread is paved in gold cement.

French fries. French best actor winners. Brooklyn local 1. Local Brooklyn fun holding and strolling. Drizzle. My Nizzle! (exclamatory to God.)

And as I thought the light frigid precipitation stationed overhead would ruin our slinking down the BK Boardwalk (formally Memory Lane) you said “It’s perfect.” Apparently talking about the view but I’m still not sure.

I stared into those blues while you couldn’t take your eye’s off of another Man….hattan. I’m lousy at jealousy. Plus Manni’s the reason your here anyway. As you leaned against the only light pole a delightful and insightful feeling spread through me and I imagine over most men who watch a girls pretty eyes get rained on; I will fight foot and fist to never let mist emit from your iris’s miss.
Cus Bonnie, if I see those peep holes to your soul come close to crying I will be a wreck.
Protection. From anyone who try’s to confound the simple seeds planted in thee 3 months ago by yahweh wielding a rake and a hoe. From sips of other’s sick bitter cups. From scary movies. From yours truly. From newly established lingo from when we both lived single. From the boogyman. and from never feeling beautiful or worthy enough.

Hi, it’s Clyde here and I wield a tommy-gun hun. It’s William Wallace not scared to fight in a dress. It’s Peeta using brains over brawn even though you fawn over the latter.

I’ll end with a quote from a guy who cut his ear off because he hated hearing himself be so briliant, in Dutch he said:
“Maar ik denk altijd dat de beste manier om God te kennen is om lief te veel dingen.”
“But I always think that the best way to know God is to love many things.”-Van Gogh

and you know him like the back of your very dry hand. Time for me and that said sandman to plan the nights adventure and I must stress, that he washes away the day and builds a castle fit for a princess (/actress/dancer/archaeologist/paleontologist.)