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Because Your Technicolor Dreamcoat has Stayed with Me

Creating its own smog-wind, the gold line train whizzed by under that iron awning, as tumbling rocks pelted every glass window of my mind.
I knew we’d have enough time, and I wanted this Holy Now to last.
Los Angeles breathed in the darkening four o’ clock hour; sucking in the light toward the ridge crest: Mulholland Boulevard. Raining.
I looked over to you for hard hope. You placed your face into my shoulder and your coat of many colors dampened my thoughts for you to the edge of my collar bone.
I wanted to sleep with you in the desert that night, with a million stars all around. Your eyes had never been more honest, both enlightened and broken. My power now is to tell you perfect truth and as I face forward – your gaze darts perpendicular to mine.
Our irises flatten, and you tell me mine are larger than Homer’s favorite pink doughnut.
Stepping out, the sand will swirl around us and there will have been a song in your teeth; a lullaby – so, we will conduct the train to memorize this white salt plain. I will eat your noise even if I don’t like the sound of it. And we’ll learn to fly, though we don’t have wings. You’ll crack each dry leaf I brought to your doorstep in our ivy autumn the year your knees caved. For nearly a decade, those leaves have fluttered in my mind on a large, vast scale. Scales of fish moving – too many to count. Sweep me up from those days and tell me, “Yes.” “Yes.” And the gold line train has taken us home. We’re always home.

26 Jan 18

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Inspired and inspirational
 — larrylark

I love this- not because I think it's poetry- I'm not certain that I consider it that. It's just beautiful writing. Prose, a passage in a book, perhaps. It's eloquent.
 — dvdsxr

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