June 30 by The Running Son
Satiƞ & silƙ sim
We drank milk, our first nourishment,
dripping silver off lips, across baby silks
and satin bibs, and all over milk-lite
creative freedoms. Later, we played
urban games with simulators
engaged: strange social arrangements
became the new danger,
baptisms and rain became
silver healing all saints day parades,
cracks in concrete emotion sealed,
us on a bench, killing time, laughing
and dreaming up sim-scenes
for parks, centrally located art districts
and personality bars, flying cars,
and first-world buss charts
with one horse drawn cart
for us: our red-blooded virtual arts.
We will make 1000 islands rise,
and highrise dreams will pierce false skies
(by laws we alone devise),
making an architect—a baptizer of me,
here tangled crazy up in complex
third-world vines. I will finally draw one long line—
following both our spines down
til we find
the right timezone.
Base tones echo back––then we’ll know to act.
Then, for moments nothing at all will be known for fact.
You and me
alone, in the dark, will comb this us,
A real life silk and satin business.
by Jim Aldrich (:
.namaste. -• ö.tH(ink)Mÿstiç •- .namaste.