May 5, 2006

  • I was lounging inspirationally in Dreamland


    under an incredible spring blue sky and dominant Sun,


    upon a Whitmanesque expanse of uncountable blades of grass
    (urging me to give witness with deep breaths and exaltations),


    affront a massive granite obelisk soaring to the beyond,


    about to compose a poem upon ‘Serious Play’,


    when a girl in a pink thong and matching pink bra


    came up to me to say: “Dream happy in Dreamland, baby.”


     


    Considering that my thoughts about serious play


    and the vision of a girl thonged-pinkly precisely overlapped


    (sexual desire being the source of much playfulness,


    attention to all the intricacies of pleasure requiring some seriousness),


    I offered her a beer and beckoned her to stay


    (never can too much of such inspiration ever get in the way).


     


    “Would love to, baby.  Would love to…”
     Then, like a surge of cogent energy in rapid transit, she simply disappeared. 


    (As quick as a text message on a cell phone flashes on, flashes off.)


    Holy fuck.  I almost gave a beer to an apparition.


     


    Yet her wishes of happy dreaming remained


    as I drank her  beer and imagined her pink bra and thong cast


    passionately aside upon luxuriant blades of grass.


    (…Whitman himself would have roaringly admired


    the resulting embracing lust of us.)

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