Friday, 30 September 2016

GWB 1.19.1 a videobook

Journal # 09.30.16

i hope i can get through these times okay. i woke up and made my dinner before work. the autumn air was cool through the box fan. i cut my finger on a soup can. the spirit of sacramento sank in the delta and they don't know where the captain went. a missing person was found after two weeks wandering the streets. someone is turning their life around. i got a big old hug this morning from an older lady, after giving her some saltines to settle her stomach. she's nervous about a change, but i know she'll be okay. if someone knows somethin about me i don't know, well... you are in for a big old hug, too.   - KatYa  (on the eve of October)

chalk it off as existential slowburn -ii

... i dont know how to write this. i want to think before i write, but i cannot. i want to treat this
with the attention it requires. the gravity it inspires. the sensitivity it needs. i am even now
holding back from trying to rush to disagree with you on some of your points you made,
because i do feel differently, yes, and thats okay, yes. however, i cannot disagree with your
overall vision. because this is also what i see. atleast i think our visions of us are pretty
much alike. it doesnt matter if they are or they aren't, though. i truly believe that.

god i feel like im in church all of a sudden. because my spirit is aching. i feel my spirit through
my body in that powerful way like i did on the best sundays in the earliest 1980s, when my family
was a young family, the 4 of us were tight, we had a big old queene anne victorian to tear around
in, a big old lawn wrapping around her, and a little peke-a-poo dog named buttons. its fur was like
the worst case of jerry curls when she was just a pup. my moms radiant joyfulness at having
all of us together singing hymns on sunday, well, it just filled us up, also. but my dad wasnt
really into it. so the kids werent either. so looking back its an aching kind of spirit i felt ...

Thursday, 29 September 2016

chalk it off as existential slowburn -i

An old letter i wrote to someone i was in love with ...


i guess i have been thinking about this honest expression you wrote to me last night
and really worried that i might not be up to addressing it, responding in to it, even reading
it all the way through - which i finally did just now. not so many hours ago you wrote it, and
not so many hours later i read the beginning and purposefully sped through it so the feelings
would not arise. the tough ones. the ones that are the simplest proof (to me) of my love 4 you.

you really opened your eyes and stared at it, didnt you? i mean the relationship, as is, as has
evolved, what has become. i can tell. my question is rhetoric. and its very fucking discouraging,
traumatic and sad, if i look at it one way. the way i see it all when you show me no mercy and
i, in return, show you none back. why? like the argument by the bathroom that must have had
to happen (even though it sucked royally) so that we could be forced to talk about the things
that you very tellingly reminded me we have been brushing over or forgiving or letting slip out of
mind in a patterned way... to be continued

Tuesday, 27 September 2016

possibly a song

Here are the lyrics to a song I am workin on (to be accompanied by my acoustic guitar which I have been neglecting terribly, poor thang)...

"Remember when you thought everything was going well and then it was not, when winter was too cold and summer too hot, another cup of coffee would pull ya through and it did, raised you up like a pup by the lids... some day you gonna be a railroad tie, no one gonna fuck with this guy, some day you can be railroad grade, swimming ona sea of marmalade... some day you gonna be a railroad tie, no one gonna fuck with this guy... some day you can be railroad grade, swimming ona sea of marmalade..."

so i saw somethin last night, like a vision, right
 i had to let go of the past and move on. now.
so i am

have a wonderful fabulous fantastic effortless lighthearted brilliant day everyone
love and light


mad red sunrise and surrealities

love. what was this word and her repetitions
her various meanings to
diverse peoples
her attachment to some
while others she out right eluded for always
never could be bought yet
always on the auction block in the world
a craigslist listing would offer and ask
but never obtain anything like

someone 2 love some
bodies for four twenty
or clouds. a toss-up 4 weed
what a trade and some

in you and me

short the patience required for the real
see a kinda pale dripping teal
from the belly of the whale
to an elephant seal
sunning half days
at the wharf ina blubbery sidesteppin grille
mass tourist appeal

step to the truth of this kinda sadness...
manifest in cities and suburbs
rural surrealities
all across our gentrified former farms
our unharnessed lands. no one can remember anymore
thank god

step to the sad truth of this soon forgotten game catch-all
love. binding a (controllable) context of lust and
self-marketing fueled by
loneliness and greed
fear and need
fear and
need. loneliness. greed

witness the watchers (who witness too)
cold in the eyes
unable to blink
greco-roman-american tragedy
stained green by water dripping for eras
into marble and porcelain tubs 
and sinks

(and where love resides) so also reside the watchers for eternity
and possibly past times
running down

even the thought of such visions
in hell took the thinkers of the thoughts
to emotional lows rarely

such emotional descent might be succeeded by
titrated blood tides

the hour
the sunset tapers

dawn frozen in the face of a dying star

mad and red

Saturday, 24 September 2016

legendary. local and non-locally

The local legends are legendary, and so are you, too, full of codes and dotted lines, signing with the strangest of signs. The runners got confused and ran backwards cross the bases and back into the dugouts which could only be uncarved and replanted in the earth as trees, encircled by swaths of honeycomb and bees, and it was like a land before time that progress took away. We walked to a local show to see your friend,  an old man wide in the eyes and young in the heart, clear in the mind playing the blues what with a small silver briefcase full of blues harps behind him and walks with a cane. All the while I was hoping to reach my potential (but not really trying) when I locked the keys in the car again and had to fuck all and get a coat hanger. We manipulated everything wonderfully, you and me. You won't remember the guy sittin on a bench between here and there, looked pretty bad and hadn't been chosen in a while by anything but a park and a bench outta place. In the distance (in the memories) a local legend was picking the blues and won't be around for long. I wanna be a local legend some day, too. For now I am non-local and legendary, but only to you.

They call the losses progress, and write them rhythmically in the ledgers -as gains- to the sound of lawn sprinklers, and get away with triumphant bank accounts which open doors to high rooms vaulting into blue skies behind glass. You think you would but you wouldn't want to be there. It's cold and light. And the light is cold, too. I promise the world is easier to take when less experienced. The barriers between us breathable. Someone is wicking away my moisture and I'm not too happy about it, I coulda sold it high on the water mark exists below the levée, some day. You meanwhile are being yourself and doing what you do, working really hard, sharing it with someone and yourself. They wick it away and charge our credit cards. I never cried so hard as the sweat lodge losses. Congratulations on reaching your (earnings) potential, America. I wanna say I'm proud of you, but you see I am way below mine on purpose. I guess I like to suffer zero balances, every once in a while feels like I'm alive in a capitalist plot reserved for us over here.

Thursday, 22 September 2016

Wednesday, 21 September 2016

read books sipping new coke outta crazy straws and dub the nights away

The only news i'm gonna read anymore is about books. i will read books and write books and read about books read and written. i will also be happy to read about unwritten (and therefore unread) books and books remembered that once were forgone or forgotten.  banned books will be a priority. translated books will be fine though i will prefer the native tongue. i may even learn another language if it helps. i will hashtag books in search queries all over the dam place. i was once an english major and truthfully got sick of reading books and books about books. most of them were novels. and i even stopped reading them though i never stopped writing them. i went into the dark room and redeveloped a fondness for paper and letters, alighted by fixer and tongs. the chemical baths in the house woulda made an ordinary old maid very sick. but this strange one (i call me) saw words appear out of letters in the shallows of the print trays in the shadowless red light district of my kitchen. digital was a four letter word in my house and if you spoke of oneupmanship in megapixel cameras on mobile phones, you would find your throat cut and the crime scene captured on old minoltas. we were in love all over again. we had books and manual inautomatons. we had tinfoil on the windows. the smell of formaldehyde and the spinning of drying prints in the hamster wheel (minus hamster). we locked ourselves in closets with one finger on a tape lead to a cartridge like a silver rubix cube with a hard on for mysterious. our lexicon was unadulterated by robots. ink from an inkwell was in fashion. we got the led out on old boxes with long silver antennae. newspaper print sullied our clothes. the speakers splashed by many a paint project outdoors and dual tape decks whereby we would sip new coke outta crazy straws and dub the nights away.
I took to meditating on a hue. Even one color has endless variations; if I could see them all at once, this had to be my color. If I could not pull my eyes away, this had to be my color. If anytime I was in a daydream and this color came to me, this had to be. I really liked having something in common with a color. I could be in a terrific jam and the color would be there with me so I was not all alone. I could find the color almost anywhere I looked. I could soften the world's cruelty through my color first. I could pluck my color from a rainbow. I could hear my color in wind chimes, and taste my color in sorbet. Then one day. One day I could not find my color. The world so drab without it. I would not speak to anyone. I would not run and dance. I had to take a chance and pick a color all anew and make it mine to give to you.

Tuesday, 20 September 2016

Journal # 09.20.16

Another night followed another day followed another, the rails scraped clean by braking, the trains screaming down the line. Somehow I killed my depression and went on living lightly. Then it came back hard bearing down and I jumped out of the way. What do you want with my life? I am not rich. I am not pure. I am not decent. I am convoluted and curse a lot. I eat Doritos for breakfast. I talk to cats like they are my children. I am a favorite scapegoat. An object of attraction. A third rail. Of all the people in the world...
must be
      you want
          what you cannot have

Saturday, 17 September 2016

the runway runs away (a remix)

REMIX of 'this loves for real .no stopping. all green some whole some lights' (circa 10 May 2011 at 03:48)  -- K by K

k by k, 2016

fuck I have been cold. I have been frightening cold, I have. until some small smile some sarah somewhere in this place post punk and petrified with perfect well wishing winning new paradigm nod to the north. if north is astral. if north is known by certain colors that stand out like a football i mean soccer jersey that’s brilliant yellow lighter than gold yet darker than lemon and loved even lusted after between air -steam- rising top of the crucial team consciousness on soft ground with soft ball and hard handshakes raising the rising roof of random screaming. a world of color a world of meaning. for most this was not so, but they backed on the tidal wave like the undertow, where the passion of the few was sourced you know, the masses go and they flow, the massive movement to go with the flow or go and go blow. rarely was this impressive, mostly nullified after the monument to him or her had been already built and cemented in place for public worshiping and it was discovered she or he had been sidelighting in a darker shade of themselves, shadowing the lives of innocents and extinguishing others candles because they lusted and cause they could. you know who i'm talking about there's so many of those. loved by many now hated by most. one circled roped in focus can distract from the life your partner your wife around you. your son who packs a gun -the heat is beat- and maybe boy or maybe girl, the foil-wrapped careful cut icebergs or powders or icicles or dub-sides come half-baked with home fries for the waiting guys waiting sometimes impatient waiting. sent. sent by that curiosity fills the soul kills some whole. just before the -you don't know now you know- part. the grow on your street that your feet touch and meet there. pavements so hard they killed fred astaire. or would had had he not been nimble. like no bread, just bologna with capers and mozzarella, white wet from the homeland near the river saucony. alive and kicking. kicking down the doors to taste buds. touch memory deeper than sentimental songs, you know. by heart. don’t start, ‘cause I’m not finished, planet earth, the spoon, the black and white, the dish, the fashion statement the runway ran away with. now you come back to reality and fall in love with someone and lose yourself. there now, your good and lost, child, god loves you like that, good and lost in love forever.   - KatYa

k by k, 2016

Thursday, 15 September 2016

more than most can take

remember when
            we were


with instant coffee
at the break
  and more than most
can take?

all i got is your

flat screen tv
 a drill
i wanna sell
       some inkjet printers from

the land of lost toys
where we once lived

you related with
 tv characters over me

not the people
not the actors
but parts they were playing
police detectives
not real ones

to miss the
true crime

broken heart hypersensitives
in the land of no shame
got what we wanted
(was) high all the time. how strange
to know it (and still proceed knowing)
   how counterfeit

why is that so fascinating?

 you had me too
 under cosmos
 free internet speed
windows #7
pharmaceutical-grade weed
(you had me)
all about the

my clothes
you washed them dry
i could not keep up with our snail-paced life
i tried

i guess i wrote all
over you

nobody scared me like me
and you in our sorry spiral
toppled up to the dresser
where we made up a million times

 our palette of minerals
 buff and of cream
 finishing powder

 at home where
 we were sure never to
 be seen

(remix @ 2011)

GWB 1.17.1 a videobook

Wednesday, 14 September 2016

helicopters and obamaphones and you

Life can be pretty strange and you don't know what to make of it, so take it as it comes. Last night I went to bed in our beloved police state and woke up startled at 8pm as a helicopter was flying very low with loudspeakers and searching for a 'suspicious person' near eggplant alley. All the soft edges of the last polite evening have been pushed and shoved and formed into something bigger than the pushes and shoves. We are left this morning with a lot or enough or something more than nothing I guess. A thermos of coffee sweetened with cream and sugar... and I still don't know how things will work out between us, you and me, or if it will continue on and be space harboring satellite transmissions to obamaphones and tower drops. I remember when it was once chemistry. And then it was magic. That lasted quite a while but not long enough. Once you have magic you can get awfully upset when you lose magic. You want anyone who had anything to do with the magic to disappear, because they remind you of the magic you lost. And now I am left peaceful and guarded, cause if you come with your late afternoon talk show dsyfunction a-knockin on my door, I might just have to call the cops.

Monday, 12 September 2016

the weather broke @ a record fifteen miles -iii

The sunlight was cheering me up and the kind exchanges I had with passerbys along the way. I was softening at a point in the run where I figured I woulda been going into 'warrior' mode. I passed a woman who looked awfully sad and wished I coulda cheered her up. A young man cruised past me on the uphill, doing sprints. There was a lady getting coached on the Guy West bridge, and I thought about my boyfriend who was gonna follow me on his bike today but had to cancel. I think it's just as well - I like to run alone.

 I always see many homeless encampments and the homeless folks either are keeping to themselves or, in my experience, are just as kind as anyone if you give them a shout and a smile. There are pits and labs off leash sometimes by the river, but I found so long as I don't scare easy and just keep running toward them, everything will be okay. Only once (last week) did I change course because a dog was running toward me bellowing. He turned out to be more bark than bite.
The last four miles would prove to be the hardest, tracing the river west on the levee, but by this time I was just a slow train to sacramento and I was able to remove myself from the effort so that I honestly felt my body was its own charge and recharging system (paired with a couple more packs of gummies i stashed in my flipbelt), so all I had to do was envision finishing and get out of the way.

The idea of feeling pain crossed my mind but never really caught hold! Again, training in the heat had acclimated me to a higher threshold of pain. It gets so heavy some days when I finish these levee runs close to noon, I find myself dipping off the trail around sutter's landing (2 miles from home) and splashing the cool clean waters over me to cool off. Today I still had cool breezes coming over me, which made all the difference in the world.

I made it home in 2 hours 45 minutes - exactly 11 minute miles x15 miles = 165 minutes. I made it! My boyfriend is really nice and he took me out for a large Peach Perfection at Jamba Juice to celebrate the victory.

the weather broke @ a record fifteen miles -ii

The first mile to the american river had me feeling strong and not as tight as previous days, I sure was psychologically prepared, and as I summited the levee to the railway the 7am amtrak leaving downtown sacramento chugged east, blocking my path. I fell into the rhythm of the train and got a good visualization for myself as I stood there waiting and running in place. Be like a train, be like a train. Several miles later it occured to me that birds are like mantra bodies because they often sing the same song over and over all their lives! This reminded me how useful my own mantras have become, and reassured me it's not a needless to practice these repetitions: nam-myoho-renge-kyo. I had been singing it in the shower before sunrise.

Once I snuggled up next to the river, I picked up my pace a bit to the cool delta breeze carrying across the levee. The visor of my hat kept the red rising sun out of my eyes, as I ran due east for another mile before following the river bend south at paradise beach. It must have been 60F and I am acclimated to running later in the day, towards 75F, so my weekday training gave me an edge for the early morning long runs.

There is a boat launch with a water fountain at mile six, so I was able to stop and hydrate for a minute and take a pack of energy gums with electrolytes there. Quickly I got back on the trail, and I was feeling fantastic. My breathing has gotten easier and easier the more I run, which is what happens to long distance runners. Your body is amazing and learns to make the most of the oxygen. I always hit my inhaler before any run, because otherwise my asthma makes me wheeze, but two blasts is all I ever need before any run no matter the distance.

I discovered that mile 7 is about where I begin to loosen up and hit my stride. The trail took me under a couple of highways and now the sun had climbed and lotsa people were out walking their dogs and cycling and running, too. Some of the early morning fishermen had packed in their river waders and were heading home, climbing the levee right before my eyes. The american river is full of salmon and snowmelt off the Sierras. I did my U-turn and headed back on a slight incline then stopped again at the same water fountain at mile 9, as it was the only water I would get on my run...

the weather broke @ a record fifteen miles -i

Before you let yourself start believing change cannot be kind, remember how summer breaks into fall and the most welcome change of all. I confess I hit the café for the pumpkin latté this morning to celebrate. The sweetness of the drink did of course mask her flavour, so I did what any good lover of coffee might well do and went home to top her off with a fresh pot. Since then I have been shining commensurate with the rising sun. Reading all the headlines may we not be pinioned by tragedy, no, may we only resonate with the triumphs in the world. Wanna try?

Yesterday I ran a new personal best in distance, down the river and back, more than 15 miles. I run a slow pace, slow and steady and I don't care, eleven minute miles. The idea is to run and enjoy running long distances (my mom is funny, she's calling me forrest gump). I tallied 41 miles across a five day stretch last week: 6-9-6-5-15. Each day more painful than the next, but I prayed to god saturday night I would wake up feeling ready and able to do the morning long run... and sure enough when I got up @ 3am sunday i felt okay and took it slow, ate a bowl of noodles and drank a thermos of black london tea no.1, did some light stretching to the gems of piano sonatas strung out by the gentleman on public radio, wrote a little, read a Russian fairytale, laced up my gray wolf Nike Pegasus runners, took a B complex vitamin and a caffeine pill, drank some organic juices and water, buttered my skin with Banana Boat, charted my course on g.maps, shook it out and hit the trail at marathon standard time, 7am...

Friday, 9 September 2016


"I watched over my little sister of the emerald eyes, she had fallen fast asleep on the leather beside me in the back of the sweet car Freddy had brought back to life now pushed into fourth gear, the tachometer up then backed up off the redline, all the windows open for the salty sea reconditioning of hair, lungs and spirits, Bless in the shotgun looking back at us, Kell using me for a pillow, and above us the towering red of the golden gate aspiring to the heavens, as we cruised on and on, into Marin county and the break of dawn."   -- from Ame & the Tangy Energetic

Thursday, 8 September 2016

bubble tea in the rooms of death

Conservatism surrounded me. A comfortable keeping to ourselves on the wings of transaction, give and take, society set up such that any otherwise lively action be tourniquet by predictable social etiquette, unnatural at best, dull and senseless concession to an all American model of commerce, profitable for sure and devoid of interest. I enjoyed my bubble tea in these rooms of death. Taking my sweet time, a sidestep from life. Only the tapioca between my teeth would burst with lifelike flavor amidst the somnolence. Then shot down the esophagus to the only exit from the constriction of our numbered days. God bless America.

Wednesday, 7 September 2016

dominoes. heaps of clothes -iii

They are dropping chlorine bombs again, while we splash our faces with the ones in our faucets, garnish with lemon and salt, now saddled with inhalers ready and breathless, in a homemade salt water sensory deprivation tank of fish, we are the fish, all is quiet and swimming in social medium. Crystal hot sauce splatters over the oysters in a postmodern spasm, slide off their rocks to Sitting Tongue who awaits. waiting. all we got this morning is waiting for confessions for paydays for unemployment checks for new leaders with new promises made, waiting for the promises to be made good, or not, or more to come.

i was waiting for you and my internal (programming) to stop the isolating (command) and go outside where you told me the sun still shines, waiting for the sun (listening to the Doors) in a bathtub on the run, completely thrilled was all i got (when i had you) and the two cats - Shy and Drama - somehow all my adult life all the cats again and again protect the sanctity of my life, but you, there is you and me and (we are) more than most (cats) can handle  - in 2011 - we had our homeless friends looking for homes we had our home which we would not have much longer, we had been told. you and me we have grown but not grown old. we have been abused and abused we have, tossed our litanies into the fire of another conjured argument with friends or enemies or one another and the same. all i got is you and our song remains the same. the hook is the only problem.

all we got is enemies. number one on the hot list of those who hate our guts? you. and me. in the space between us god bore witness, well, that's the kind of sentence got strung out and led to the forest path this morning, sometimes urgency in it, too, or swollen with bottom dwollen wrath (Allman brothers can soothe us only so long).

all i got is my music sometimes. this morning all i got is a cloud and the light so bright its perfectly loud and hurts my head a bit. but i got medication for that. OT and C what i got? i got meds and antibacterial handwash a tropical sea color blue with bubbles trapped in there like, well, like leaders trapped behind their military might in Syria in Egypt in Tunisia in Iran in Yemen in Algeria...trapped like bubbles in a cascading tropical Facebook blue ignited and (it had been said) long overdue...

like me and you. take us back and stamp us red and pay for us so we can recirculate back into the system where some unfortunate child some day will wander away and pull us off a darkened shelf in the horror section, to look through to the other side. ya, all i had back then was a pretty good feeling we would stay alive and survive the two and the ones (these numbers gotta add up to something), on a day was February twenty-one, twenty-eleven. numbers add up to nine ...

number nine (by design)
number nine (lives)
number nine (sign)
KatYa, 2016 remix 2011

Tuesday, 6 September 2016

dominoes. heaps of clothes -ii

the little panels were etched plastic
if you lined them up right you
solved a code
and then they let you link
up and in

made a clicking sound
each time a panel hit the wooden table
(a computer will try and replicate this
but won't ever cut it. thank god)

the exhaust out the back
continued for hours (rising against the snowfall)
black fossil fuels somehow taken into
 the sky tone

crisp and light and exposed
unlike before when
it was soft and
dark and unseen

 well. you and me we would have it all
on a beaten path
now road. on a long road

moving moving moving
as if there was anywhere better
to go

Saturday, 3 September 2016

dominoes. heaps of clothes -i

We got pushed and shoved until we formed into something bigger than the pushes and shoves, something resilient and not without a heart for a fight. Outcasts on the margins and nowhere else we wanted to be. You could see it in our eyes, night after night. One could tell that's how we hooked up, you and me

all i got this morning is you
all you got is me
and two battle ax lounge ax young
blood kittens

suffer some more and you will
have something

we are daft
      first draft
we are punk

tough shit if anyone thinks they know
how we will work out

peanut butter jelly
and skunk

me and you of all the meanings
could be derived. like the mountains
a long long time ago

even when it was now
me and you got drive.
and never will be

i kinda wish sometimes
we were still

Journal # 09.02.2016

Tomorrow I will be driving with a friend 2 hours north past Lake Tahoe to Reno so we can hike Mount Rose. This mountain has the highest base in the Tahoe range, somewhere around 8,000 feet. The peak is 10,000. No big deal, just a fun trip and a way for me to cross train. Honestly my body feels like hell still from last week's 41 total miles running so I am happy to take another day off this week. I have felt progressively worse since the 13:7mile B2B. That was my first ever half marathon, so maybe it was an overexertion? It's all a big experiment. My nutrition and sleep needs are also part of the equation. I have been drinking a lot of water and V8 juices and eating PB&J on whole wheat and oatmeal, and salmon. But I lapsed for a few days into sourdough bread with cheese and tomato, and even had a 5-egg cheese omelet yesterday for lunch with sausage. I convinced myself that I oughta clear out the remnants of my old diet from the fridge - by eating! Bad idea. I am expecting to lose 15-20 pounds by december for the CIM, so I can be at ideal race weight (I have lost about 5 this past month). I can tell my legs are much stronger, and my lungs are doing more with the oxygen because I am rarely out of breath anymore. I've been keeping up with yoga and running in sun and heat lately, because I cannot get off work until 830am (would prefer to hit the road around 700am). The good news is that I have been feeling fantastic when I am on the road or river trail and running. I think if I continue to stretch well, tweak the nutrition and cross train when my body tells me I should, pushing the limits on the long runs, I should be just fine and ahead of the Hal Higden schedule I am following. I kinda wish I had chosen a trail run like the AR25 instead of the road marathon for my rookie race, cause I'm finding that the trail is so much softer on the body. Wait! I did sign up for the AR Parkway inaugural 20 miler in November. Though it's registered as a road race, I can only hope it will be hybrid, if they leave room for running on the margins of the bike trail, where there is indeed earth.

Friday, 2 September 2016

unite like a night train unites with the night

september and we were super together and you were natural like a farmer to me you were a farmer and i coulda been a farmer's wife with a farmer's tan and your name written in raspberry juice up and down the curves of my chest and we would not be smiling all the time dripping with honeymoon anymore, for seconds maybe yes, but mostly working and class and working our ass off and classes with glasses cause i don't see as good anymore gettin older, i guess and history looks a little different behind us if we were to look back upon the vistas without falling into it. i would rather fall into you and what you are doing, the hours behind a wheel of a truck, the 12 hour days or doubles, and yes i am single still, are you? if i pull with my arm will you blast your horns? shine your light this way, my love, we could unite like a night train unites with the night but the day will come when we see things for how they really are and would you want me then would i want you? i love you now and you care about me and that is a tasty concoction with shaved ice hoping not to get crushed at the foot of a celery stalk, melting the summer suns into autumn.