Suggested listening: nightmares on wax, Soul Purpose, In a Space Outta Sound

I’m sitting on some cushions, on a nice green rug. It looks like grass, and the texture feels good on my fingers, throbbing and sore from grabbing colored plastic shapes nailed to a wall, by a guy with a PHD and define beads in his hair. I’ve been climbing.

The moon is shining in, tracing a warped tree across the kitchen wall. And I started thinking of a conversation I once had about the sun and the moon.

:Sun is a man, all proud and full of gusto, swelled to a blushing plump burn as he rises, humans everywhere poking their eyes through curtains and drinking orange twice.
All day long he looks down bewildered by our to-and-fro-ness.
Then a showy farewell, when our eyes can stand him again.

:Moon is a woman, beautiful without effort
She doesn’t even need to make her own light, she pulls her veil, black on the surface all that space away, but a billion silver glittering diamonds white when her husband casts his eyes her way…

What does that make earth?


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s