Heartbomb (Bohemian amethysm).

Romani wanderer. Traveler of the night.We hide our light with our world all abloom lit in adventures always found with you. Wherever we lay our pirates hat is always a party to be had and a home to the soul for deep resting, but never forever ever permanent.

Honey, close your eyes for just a little bit. I promise the fun won’t end when you wake of it.

Yes, ‘it’ as in the thing you long for. The rolling moments of sweet lit friendship. The babbling brook of your paths past now found intrenched in togethers jolly.

Lost in a ruin of time. Time to go, because you come from smaller times in smaller worlds where time is a shorter distance where little to do is in everything and in order to change that you must reinvent each instance.

Find new worlds with longer spiraling timers arrows. Study the science of it all and break what little time left you have in your heartbomb’s clockers keep.

Don’t count sheep. Move past them to the next dream. Find the inner vision of your most longing and wanting pretty personality smiling jackal for a Hyde of hungry teeth. And when it consumes you and runs away with you under red lit skies slowly starting to fall in, peer into her darker eyes while you still can, and know of their every detail – study them well. They are on a similar journey. But don’t blink. You might get left behind.

Time tripper. The magical taboo of romanticizing time thieves – as if the worlds history full on misery were not enough for these primal hungerings. But we seek to move us past that. All of time is but a concept. All of life but perspective. Choose yours well.

Turning Romanian culture into privileged erasure pop vulture. If only everyone had such opportunity but to ‘choose’ to be happy. Some of us have taller hills to climb to find such a vantage point to this one place we share space in called reality.

Brother Gil Scott warned me of this. But I don’t think he anticipated Twitter. Or the gift that is an online world so connected at the hip. Knowledge of everything at your finger tips. Now we choose what realities we subscribe to.

So long as there are bills to be paid, battles to be won, and sugar in your tank, you’ll have time to chase to make up for the unique storied misfortunes where always you are victim to a victimhood forever singing your sad, sad song.

I’m interested in writing the lyrics to the song where you are your own superhero. What powers do you want? Would you like the bubble of Christian American middle class white male luxury? It rides late into the night wherever it pleases and if pulled over gets a gentle reminder of wiser fatherhood advice like as if every police officer were a friend of a friend a relative my own neighbor brother.

We all share the face of paler ghostly atrociousness from rope to hide to tree to auctions to America the dream and how the white man truly lacks a vision inclusive of different cultures.

Highland traveler, speaker of Cant, taker in doom. You highlight insecurities then dance at their gloom. The upkeep is for the Jones’. But fuck comparisons. You’ll always lose in the end. The odds of ‘better’ are always stacked against you.

Instead, meet the sweet young thing that goes by the name, Appreciation. She sings with what she’s feeling right now and she moves her shapely body as if gravity were but a dance to be had with time. Shake the feelings you previously had about deeper procreation inhibitions being controllable. Appreciation is smiling at you again.

What was this poem about again? Damn, she has nice hips…