June 9 by The Running Son
My First of ⊙ctober
You will be led up,
where paints and the musk
of creativity are brushed,
and things touching things
I am where LA October blues hang
in smoke rings, but
I am April longing, now fresh
into spring and calming, chest falling,
long on each of your eyes.
I called you up openly,
and ask all veils fall back
for me (only us, you see? We who’ve already flushed
away both our air).
I am static, october electric—
At last in this damn oil drenched attic
I will fight battles to paint
your full color past right;
capture October mid-autumn blush,
I will see you again.
Then the day will come when we’ll recount
the times you caught me mid-
heartbeat working out
at LA speeds all my opium-den
furies and painting needs. For you,
I’ll justify this attic, deny my tragic past
until a new-sprung balance arises
and every angle of you meant to be cast
is finally externalized.
And for once, may I please outlast those vast October eyes.
by Jim Aldrich
.namaste. -• ö.tH(ink)Mÿstiç •- .namaste.