Brainspouts, Spigots, Drips, Drops, and Spays of The Waking Memory

"You who were born with the sun above your shoulders, you turn me on, you turn me on, you have to know... You who were born with the sun, she keeps her distance. you turn me on, you turn me on, but so does she. You who were born there where beauty is existence, you turn me on you turn me oh but it heals my soul. you who were born well you shiver and you shutter. you turn me on, the girl is gone so come on lets go."


The soundtrack plays, my heart, if for a moment stays back in time to try and measure the way things were. In the car, driving from place to place; the heater cranked, it was so cold then. We would take it to the top of this parking ramp and look over the sleeping town, watching the cars go by and the lights lit up; stars in front of our eyes. But the music... Maybe the best thing about you and I. Always, we had music. Everywhere we went it was a silly competition to see who could outdo who at discoveries of melodies and soft voices and hooks and lines. Those were the times, and when we dined we did it well, and laughed and joked and you or I would always give the waiter a bit of a hard time. You and I, miles and miles are there between but we still dream all the same. That tree, that one magnificent branch that should have fallen by now, and just as well, for neither one of us will climb it anymore. But I still drive, and I know you still turn the key and go back in time when I was there; I know you know that I felt just the same as you. Well, timing is everything, as they say. The timing was off; its always off, it seems these days. Just sitting down by the riverside spreading my arms to the open wide, you there always by my side. You, you, you. Me, me, me.

The sedatives kicking in, I think a little of the years gone by and wonder how it will all turn out in the end. But it is late, and I must sleep, and so should you. I want to write of many things, but some are just so hard to find and others touch too deeply in the waking of my sleeping thoughts.

Whatever all this is it means nothing. The written word means nothing really; it never will unless something of it has happened and unless someone has felt it and known it. Now the drugs are deep in my lungs and my blood is thickened by them so much so that I forget to make any sense out of anything.

Goodnight

-C