Whistling a Blue Note...

    Mild gases, sump-pump gum chewing, slobber-eyed, wide thighs girl next to me begged to stop. The air chewing at our bottom as we sat upon the heavenly sky. 
Mysterious voices, mumbling thoughts, trailed through the half-working air vent blowing
feverishly upon my broken, brittle, sleep deprived face. 
Headaches grew, Impatience slue, freshly shaven, nothing to cool the imperfections that now bubbled in my skin. 

    Fumbling to read, the sun centered in disguise, watched me climb in, out of the clouds, tipping wings and a humming distaste for all the ‘swimming in’ tired expressions of a pious, persistent, broad shouldered, Sunday dressed soul walking up and down the island, divided by the sky, wavering for attention, beckoning to whomever may call upon her. The once reddened sky begins to black out of discomfort, welcoming a calming purple haze. As the air turns, her fire begins to melt—dissenting among the birds like ravenous pigs mixing it up over a stalk of cob. 

    The towering heat, a bit colder up here, in the mountainous skies, severing blind the facts of morality---burdened by a winged pilot and his first command. America at its lowest point, tunneling down, fleshy creatures walk among carved
landscapes, blue lagoons, sound of the ol’ South, whipping at my face through the two-inch plexi-glass window. Swinging tributaries fly along the ground flooding all the 
Hysterical people’s afternoon barbecues and day-off sermons. 

    While falling, great white earth ferried our souls, its abundant meat, childish grins, soft greenery, sweaty distaste. Tightening my eyes, gulls stark cries infested each thought, their soft yellow bodies, 
Brittle souls, deafly carried the bop in my being. 
Fresh, black sky, camouflaged the canvas, bringing spots, white, and a smirking moon. The lit-up octopus below, I could hear the singing streets, the sexy touch of whispers in the hard Battery below. Rainbow colored rows of ominous houses, tired souls, eroding the world below with their crazed confusion. 

    Tail up, wing forward, the engines roared shut, scraping her feet against the wet, hard cement. Drivel begins again, turbulent beating hearts, sweaty eyes, stop now that the bird has safely landed.

    Now stopped, out, we bop, then flop, characterless days later, back out to the top to stop the chop of a monotonous shop of a goofy-eyed, doctor tank top cop whose shocking slop of mysterious bar hopping stops, ginger pop sop atop his parent’s Cadillac swap to come home every night, 6 pm, to the same old chop, two ignorant daughter’s doors closed shop, off to his bedroom to sponge his mop, make a bed stop, talk mysterious shop to a mumbling stranger while eyes close pop of the days working plop, 4 am, up again to wild hop, the same nonstop drop of the doctor’s romp, then home again, in the same whipping top, Cadillac flop, never taking stop in this world’s unchangeable block.

    Old South grew tired of my whining soul, eager to escape sexy touch, taking my indifference, one true love, only days later, back up to the ravenous air, where a less brutal sky could comfort any boy’s pain. 

    She was screaming all the way home, flushed, blushed, mad beings walked triumphantly
 down the aisles, torching the air with sensual discoveries. My heart, ripped between an ancient love, sneezing wildly, n a fidgety, sleeping, pestering soul.

    Ophelia-like, I can feel her going berserk, growing agitated with each crazed emotion, her soft dream tying knots in her eyes, lids trapped shut, like the gum I stepped, as I walked on the plane; digging beneath the frail-covered seat, hard, torching your bottom with each second as the wind tosses us all wildly in the night. 

    The air, blowing like a horn on a clear, boisterous San Francisco eve, downtown on Columbus, Pearl’s. The sweet sensual, mind lifting music moves heavenly through your soul with each tired string. Watching it pluck by a thousand times in only minutes, the soft, dark skinned singer, more beautiful than the eye can imagine, her voice, trapping each beat with an immense note that carries through the air, off the Golden Gate, back toward the East. The great wind, carrying the Blue Note across the Fire Mountains of the West, breathing in the fresh, newly wrapped air, blossoming from a sad sky.

    Flowers, pockets of clear, transparent life springs each day from the great white heavens, contributing to the smaller folk who try to live each moment below. The Note, the Note presses on, through the tumultuous, yellow haze of Middle America, open, sensual fields, mulling about ancient culture whose explorations and developments have left this world to pedal on in a horrid digression. The Note stops to listen to it breathe, hovering in the dusty air above, time watching small Indian children laughing through thicket bushes, scraping by on small fawns, old worlds tossed over by several Ice Ages shifting below the torturous, molten earth. 

    Screaming, cragged rocks, jet the earth over the now open America, once smothered in ice, the heartland, wheat bread fields, corn husking the dirt, watching strangers tear through casseroles, catfish, morel mushrooms, and the hot, creamed corn, Chicago style barbecue. Cheese Soup, port-o-red tempts the weary Blue Note, tears through the stale air of Chicago Jazz, windy city, windy streets, windy air blows through windy alleys into windy clubs, whining out soft windy horns, tickling ivories with a sensual, blonde, blue-eyed, windy voice. The dark sax blows violently pushing the Blue Note back out toward the blooming sky. 

    Back over the Great River, cutting through America like a hot knife through butter, pushing its great lips to each bank running almost 2600 miles long, from the mind-eyed, wide-grime of old New Orleans to the terrible snows of a Minnesota winter. Sneering above the Great River, Blue eyes old casino boats, the big red, ferry wheel pushing the ship through the drowning mud below. Reveled up souls, tuxedoed-out in their nighttime bests, pace the ship frantically for their next quarter up, the red-soaked sun screams beneath sky, watching the lonely river travelers, while melting in the skyline below. 

    Purple haze drips out of the sky above, Blue holding back his tears, watches the sky singe together slowly until the celestial night awakes. The haze draws darker now, dark brown, almost black, while the sun seeps out of sight. The white time moon slowly surfaces the sky, boiling up from the cold induced night. River travelers’ watch while the sky leans back in style, spreading its speckled body across the infinite abyss. The air, trembling again, wraps Blue in his arms, heading further East, across the Great Lakes of ancient native people’s past, tearing through the ground to create passageways, by-ways, this ways, that ways, noticing century people below, Saturday best, picnic their way to the maddened outer edge of a lowly lake Michigan. 

    Wide-eyed, small shoulder girls wash their skin in banana oil, sun drenching the sand beneath their naked bodies, shadows staring back in aww of their candlelight phantom beauty, dying to taste such pleasures. Across the mulling water, families sit upright, tearing their annoying children away from their hypnotic adventures that land them in the same beachy place each Saturday afternoon, often tired of venturing to the same space every week, forced to enjoy something so dreamy, once loved by Grandmothers who passed tradition on, on, on wanting nothing but tradition to live, tradition to mother itself to a new beginning, but sadly enough, dying is beginning again. 

    Blue presses on, wondering when the next Ice Age will hit, watch it slowly freeze the world below, first the Great Michigan, then the naked beauties, envious of nothing, but a blood red sun. Watching each inch of them freeze in the moment, wanting to live on in envy, giving the next world a resurrection of thoughts, modes, terms to describe the way of life like a thinly wrapped Bible unfreezing its desire on a new dream to live by. Naked people, naked girls, naked dreams will be the Next World. All of our desires will be based on these Ice Princesses and their soft, frozen bodies, touching the new unearthed skin, waiting for the next way of life to begin, everyone walking around nude, keeping no sensual desires with it, but pacing, this new way of life will continue. Sun awakens after a million years, organisms re-earth, unconquered land wraps its bare claws around a humanity blossoming all around it. The trees shoot life into the air again, plants pester the earth and the fire red ants around it, the sky cries again, tears shoot toward the earth in torrential storms of built up rage, releasing beautiful screams, like a soft sax speaking in the old bop of early days. 

The wind will push, like Baker’s Funny Valentine, new dreams, new structures, small colonies will bless their meals once again with false Indian friends, bronze will enter again, great battles will surface, decide who stays and who goes, dreams will vanish, death ensues, but the fat, burly, white dream will live on, pressing through centuries to an age of reckless abandonment. Stars will kiss the sky again each night, taking up new names maybe, not the ones found under the clouds of today, where little light drips out each day, kissing the earthy landscape, bringing life to centuries of struggle, abandonment, hopeless prayers. 

But maybe this world will see past the usual drudge of today, make me wrong, make hate vanish in the fast wind, make seas calm forever, unlock a new world, a new place where traditions could live on, where naked bodies could flower the earth in mind numbing orgies, resting forever without having to worry of any night screams which may protrude, any dreams that may go unheard, Gods will listen once again, taking shelter in the hearts of those who need its glory, its unending hymn of praise. Buddha will scour the earth, searching for nothing, unearth desire, destroy all who do so and walk peacefully in a mind, toward a wish I had it ending. 

    With this entire dream, the sky, today, still has its torrential beauty. Beneath the sordid existence of life, time watches, and Blue keeps going. Flowers booming out of the sky string like vines, Blue wraps notes around each one, watching the industrious northeast below him, plucking the infinite, San Francisco Bass each time it peaks. Peaking through illustrious artificial clouds that wrap there arms around the brotherly love of old Philadelphia. Cobble-stoned streets, once the capital of great America, now underneath the sprawling density of fortune 500 dreams. Urban decay, drowned in I-95, heading North toward the one great America left today. Attacked by years of change, her statue claims the place of what once was, and now, what is, hugging the mouth of the old Hudson, her copper existence smiles in the face of those who enter. Blue watches, needing to rest his weary notes, in his old home on 131 West 3rd Street, where the alto hums, the tenors walk through to the trumpets, tearing through the old, moldy air of low dim lights, baritones huffing, only to be relieved by the soft tones of the trumpet, working its magic to a glorious high pitched blow, before trombones, those evil trombones, give way to ivory keys, mystically finishing the beat. Then the solo Bass, daddduuum, daadummming its path through the smoke stench, stale beer, dry wine, tasteless chops, white faces, weekend beats, sun dried nights of the great state of New York.

    Blue, out of wind, tears slowly through the lonely streets of New York, peering in solemn windows, watching scores of children sleep mildly in the thick, moldy night. The air ruffles as he makes his way toward the dreamy streetlight. Poppy-eyed moths, bicker to the sounds of screaming cars, crying, late night voices, white feathered, banging endlessly like a blind man’s watching stick on a rocky, cragged street. Dancing women parade around him in scanty cloths covering their barely nude skin, heating the humid night in feverish thrills, offering their essence for nothing but a whim from sun glassed strangers, dark suits, singing virgins. 

    Warm eyes, surrounded by soft, fleshy skin, perturbed lips, sunken nose, the incised jaws of strangers walking among him in weatherized, withered clothes. Slowly down the sidewalk, the light unwraps new faces, newly shaved, cutting through the air with unraveled potential, falsely dressed, cheap suits, dad’s tie, dirty shoes to that first impression, that dream of being of something, someone, someday tying together a large education of drunken parties, sordid experiences, forgotten the next morning after an induced coma of Jack’s finest. 

Stuck up, mucked up gentleman, sipping hot espresso, with frothy eyes staring back at each drinker, keeping watch of terrible truths, each soul hides.

    Blue watched the light fade away, walking tirelessly through the molten streets. The air began to whip again, shaking his face, he grabbed hold of a blossoming flower, off he went, tearing through the sky, in the dark set night, waiting for the lost to echo him away.

Eyes wide, the air finally calmed us down, rivaling rapid thoughts of armed terrorists, exploding buildings, natural disasters. The once heated morning of the old South has turned sour, into a cold, devilish nightmare, that I am elated to be a part of. Cold, rip roaring winds, drizzling snow, watch my plane nighttime dream, and sneezing love, crunch through the heavy Boston streets. Our silent, yellow, driver is a compliment to the crazy dreamer just hours before. 

    Tip-toeing through thoughts, the friendly buildings open their arms once more, to welcome weary travelers home; mind exhausted, I think of Blue, his beautiful tone, passing through the winterized air of mid winter dreams. The days I forget, of free believing, dreamy thoughts oozing out my mind, into my hands, scraping such mad images into the blank pages of unfettered times. 

    Once, I was lost, frozen confusion battered me daily; now it is the Blue sky I can look to, climb four floors to a snowy, January roof, climb into a blossoming sky and hand my soul to Blue, his awesome array of dreamy thoughts, soul scorching melodies, that Blue and I can now revel in praise.

The End

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