A Mini Society

EAST MEETS WEST in a wayward junction of circles and ellipses under the winter mountain sun.
A fusion entirely beyond my control, mattermen alongside coyotes, craving for french kisses from sparkling dharma bees, weird sisters making them neighbors with mile high pirates, shakespearean firegazers flash sweettalking sugartits, peaceful epic dogs chase laughing goats, the new age has no need for a king of a steadfast truth.

Learn your times for the art of letting go, loose change twilite, speedball every day, we are gifted with the skill of stopping time, it’s a grateful sad, a to b connection, Xberg to Boulder, US Highway 36, I’ve hardly ever felt so placid, God’s liberty bell is tinkling for a crabby breakfast of kale & eggs.

You’ve recycled your self, farewell from Colorado and see you tomorrow. Don’t be too jaded by American superficiality, hasn’t this always been about the left-handed witchcraft, the obscene countercultural weirdos, the haunted hobos of a pink underground, tomorrow’s parties, the mini societies and anti-social networks. Radical love remains the sharpest tool in the shed.
There is no fixed truth in the Orm, no authoritative position. Benjamin Franklin didn’t only print papers and the poor man’s journal, he was a ladies man, endeared ambassador to the french thieves.
It’s a refreshed self, not a perfect one, I’m still afraid of something, in the guise of women, wonder why, gay that I am certainly not, grateful for the affirmation in the Princeton bound matrix.

IN THE VERY END, the whimsical path of the soft maniac is cluttered with icy patches of mere sublimity. My sense of timing is starting to have more glitches than the ED 209, I’ve become weary to ask and ask again.
One of the genetically modified fish is gone. Eaten up by the mean orange one, dead or alive, nobody will know. I didn’t like that, she says, flashing a black catsuit of artificial velvet that everybody is yearning to have, girls and boys alike.
Even the gentle monarch is getting uneasy by now, he’s still meaning to be the perfect host, he just had enough, the joints are burning and he can’t create the space.
The parcours catboy won’t turn around from the computer to say goodbye, no surprise and no offense.

At Denver International, the Eastern and Western terminals are connected by a simple overground pathway, you can walk with no suspension.
But I take it you know that all already.

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