oil change
ultrasound
then 6000 feet above sea level
walking on the wettest spot on earth
later
we sleep
seaside
at the house of the dead
wake to find
sunrise chips
watch whale’s
tails
slap
as we move
in slow motion
sifting through sea salt mist
and sand
simply sit
we’ll sample coffee
at the roadside tourist trap
but realize
we just can’t go to Costco
along our way
back home
I am
but oh, so small
upgraded neanderthal
with thumbs
spacing
letters on a screen
I’ve got a collection of pens
Radiohead CD
plants in pots
and a grocery list
at a desk
in a house
some dreams
inside my chest
oxygenated particles
giving me breath
as I try to sort
the silverware drawer
cosmic dust
and exploding gases
orchestrate
organized chaos
in deep space
if I only knew
the intelligent glue
that holds this all together
I’d surrender to gravity
admit
that I know nothing
be grateful for a day
to float in vastness
step among grass and shadows
feel the shine of a star
90 million miles away
not yet quite
an ember
I now have a vat of aloe vera juice in the fridge.
After hearing about the medicinal benefits of internal ingestion, the Bohemian harvests aloe from the backyard and blends it with honey and lemon from neighboring farmers. It’s a homegrown concoction that’s quite tasty, though my intuition hints at imbibing it with caution.
Isn’t aloe vera known as a powerful laxative? This morning’s online searches confirm my hunch.
Regardless, this tonic is better than any of the latest aloe vera drinks we’ve been seeing pop up on the natural food store shelves.
Besides, this homemade version’s virtues are touted with an exotic Czech accent that keeps wanting to pronounce the silent ‘e’, to make it “alo-eh”.
I may only be sipping this alo-eh elixir. But I’m drinking in the beauty of its goo. Wow!
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