(Word count is 146 but 39 are Doors lyrics so I didn’t count them)
“‘The forest shivers under the caresses of the cristal-fingered delirium..’ That which is electric in the shiver—whether it runs along man’s nerves or along the fibers of the forest—has met a sensitive detector in the poet’s image.  Don’t such images bring us the revelation of a sort of intimate cosmicity?  They unite the outside cosmos with an inside cosmos”
(Bachelard, Poetic Reverie; 139)

A darkened stage
slow milling
murmuring
meanders watch
A silhouetted figure
swaying leather tight hips
to the high pitch of the organ
the beat from of the drum
fluid fingers stroking his guitar
smooth harmonica
He slithers to the mic stand
mouth in pout shaking out his curls
He stares out at the crowd before
he wails
WAKE UP!
His head falls forward
then is thrown back
AOOOOWW!
The music matches his energy
the words slip past dreamily from his lips
yet the meaning assaults your mind
Don’t you love her madly?
Don’t you need her badly?
Don’t you love her ways?
Don’t you love her as
she’s walking out
the door!
an eee-rot-tic politician
rules
this show
possessed by
an
Electric shaman
has you under his spell
Well I’ve been
down
so
goddamn
long!
That it
looks like
up to
meeeeeee

Are you awake now?

“A whole vanished universe is preserved by an odor. Lucile Delarue-Mardrus, the beautiful Norman poetess writes: “The odor of my country was an apple.””
(Bachelard, Poetic Reverie; 139)

My dad is an old truck
filled with tools, sawdust
and cigarette smoke.
My best friend indescribable,
like fresh laundry, sugar
and a rose or a lily
My mom like a warm bed
grass on a sunny day
and white cheddar popcorn
My neighbor lies in
hot chocolate with heavy cinnamon
and cookies
Lopez island wrapped in
the smoke of an apple pie
weed, cigarettes and liquor
I miss my car the most
vanilla, cigarettes, resin
and crème soda too
Barbara, my second mom
like fresh herbs, sage
pot-stickers and fire
I’m scared these smells
as they last longer
than those who they
represent

“The dreamer can easily project his own anima upon the beloved. But in doing that, there is no simple egotism of the imagination. The dreamer wants his projected anima to have a personal animus as well, one which is not the simple reflection of his own animus.”
(Bachelard, Poetic Reverie; 88)

Do I love you?
Or do I love what I perceive you to be.
To take that further; do I know you or I even exist?
Or do I put you here to ease my own insecurities.
I know that I think that I know you
is that enough?
Is love the same conscience experiencing itself?
I think I know that I crave your personal animus,
one that is everything I am not and crave to be.
I revel in our anima, but is that right?
Do I love you for you or for what I cannot be?
Humans love the things they can’t have,
so to literally be as I cannot
keeps me here.

“”The army of flowers answers the call of its queen” so that floral life may triumph over accursed life.” (Bachelard, Poetic Reverie; 40)
 
Why must I be the river twisting around your banks
The flow above and below your pebbles
The petals circling your seed fiilled center
The vines crawling up your wall
The waves crashing against your
endlessly
stubborn
shore
I must adapt around your curves
and bumps
and dark crevices
and inconsistencies
and terrible words
You demand liquid form to be with you
Give up my solid form for streams
wind swept petals
crashing waterfalls
silently churning rivers
Why wont you move for me?