stop throwing branded claymation at generic nation

think before you throw this.  please. think until your emotions  rest, come to peace. the foundation will not be lost, the cause will still hold true. do not let that tick of time push push push you to some unsatisfactory way of doing. reaction too hot. requires some recalibrating, some cooling. some vacant nature grown through asphalt urban lot...

turning blue now, the way we do now. shadows maybe, evening maybe fall. the pine trees stand so tall, so very tall. and we sway like this, side to side, side and back, our capillary needles, little felt at the micro essential level, waving just waving yes-- waving like any head of any state whose driven, woven up and down by the town the city  embraces this your arcade, your motor arcade, your esplenada ticker tape remoulade.

southern shore color pink. pale pink with a neon craving. your feel you feeling the comfort of the cushion of the cloud softened sky and milk softened bourbon and faces softening and melting like ice cream in the heat of the lone star in the sky kind of intimate kind of relating kind of day kind of way, down yes down your special silk socks curbed with velvet and heeled out with suede so fine could walk you on the moon, they say, could walk you on the moon, bay bay.

turning yellow now like sunshine the coin and the dime silver coat drip off the copper. and she throws the clothes all around your face before you like to get your attention, snaps the linens torn off the cord in the yard you stretched in a gesture of non-violence.  familys longjohns dryin in the yellow sundrip, kissed by the sun, the solar lip trip - you gonna get when she next stages the biblical reading over your head and over the land, oh men. man. woman. sundress and sundries. yellow gold hues deep as the living gray yellows of tidal pool sucking sand. let her leave you and join the band, go far on tour. read her love notes and splash through her pretty pictures as you roll around half-in-love with your hardwood floor.

turning red. turning pink. turning pale yellow like some late fifties pontiac sold off to Cuba, buried in the ground with harleys and then unearthed and found, naturally preserved treasures of the earth, vive la difference. vive la net worth. when cuba libre gets diluted, thats when all goes to hell, you know....

when cuba libre gets diluted
when american dollar became something worth more than your local currency
when velvet underground became pop rox
when someone with a passionate voice is told to kick rocks
when we let go of our dreams, it seems
when the fear smacks us like million candle power light beams
when the plastic mould meets old steel mill, oversold
when appalachia meets media whore
and takes her on,  on tour. takes her cause he can...

when the red carpet takes on the other colors
the colors of yours and mine
cause you are ready to go
and you told me so
its been a half hour
and you thought i should know
so

i guess now i know
fuck
now i know
now ....

<>   -Katya 2010

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