Day Dreaming A Daily World
Notes from an old life I discovered in a recent audit of my email, and keeping some of the basic structure, rewrote.
I’m ready for the next challenge.
Thank you for your inspiration in dreaming, Yung Caits. Now, I’ve edited your thoughts to make a new vision. I took just the bones, they were perfect.
I want a life that is like ripe oranges without seeds, do you know what I mean?
The morning should most often arrive without urgency.
Dancing to Idris Muhammed and singing Fiona Apple in the mirror. Smiling at myself in the mirror. Licking the mirror, if I am in the mood to do so. Crying as I move, or breathing out hard, getting all those feelings out of my body.
I want what I want and I want you to love me.
Fiona’s words, but I am singing to myself.
Sharing a smoke with my upstairs neighbor, the Rasta, on the stoop and having a conversation in solely laughter:
Ha-ha! Ahahahaha. Ha. Heh. HA!
Except, for it’s every night with my love, who is secular and nothing like the rasta in temperament or otherwise, but what is the same in this scene is that we are still laughing at ourselves, and harder.
Making a pilgrimage to an old crooked tree.
Making a mixtape for the world.
Creating a new world with an old friend, with a beat and an MPC and a mic and a loop station (maybe one day again, I crave this), but most often, just a blank page.
Finding a new adventure far away, or close to home, whichever is now and here and feels right.
It was once, and still sometimes is just the park, or napping in each other’s arms, or mapping out each other’s beings with our fingers and or painting a gigantic mirror or making up bad raps or good raps or trying to coax the stars out of the sky to join us.
I haven’t written a poem in a very long time. I’ll lay beneath the sky with my mouth open.
