My Godfather was named Harley.. I left my horse at the bar and walked through the crisp flakes under the grey sky with her sunshine of optimism in my head.. It was cold but I know the numb greeting on my hands with a shake of frozen fraternity.. I wonder if the machine keeps her locked up on the other side of the world or if she contains the freedom of the Sun, her solar flares passing a spoken energy in anonymity. to me like a treasure of everything I cannot ignore. Of course it's a ball of plasma and nuclear fusion, almond free tree you are harmed by the waves and particles causing your skin to cancer.
I would take a wound or a Sundance. But I am scientific and superstitious and know that sunblock diverts the melanoma. Which I hope she promises me she understands. Will she live forever? She is gifted into me like another mystery. We contain hate and love and damage and heal without remorse. I will carry her light energy, more photons that touch me. Towards what destination. The harvest of course. My false poetry I throw away because I've never written any. At least to her, a short play where they threaten us with death and they die from their threat. Who did they lose? Their future genetic sequence?
A military industrial complex that can't print enough soldiers to die for nothing. On the beach we are binary forever. Shoot me if I wasted my time and the next man will do all the garbage jobs. You will be found anyway amongst the ashes with no freedom, and I hope we are in a California mind writing some memory of completion. It will be a liberation. Nothing more. You are ascendent.
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