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Christian Reid Oct 2014
Freedom rang,
bang   bang   bang
and we traversed the dense foilage
of my Sepia Jungle
Populated by Spirited faeries
Whose lives came and went with the blowing wind.
And Time dissappeared beneath the sublte sunshine
As we entered Apricot Village
Where twisted, sappy leaves gnarled between
Milky white blossoms that decorated fetal fruits,
Whose crowning golden heads pushed petals fresh,
From budding limb,
Now kidnapped by the wind, a lazy sloshing sea of air,
The ground garnished by its aged spices.
It was a village where cottages grew among the Trees.
Devoid of holiness & Dogma, but steeped in the rife Purity of Nature,
No Man was to be seen, rotting fruit about the feet of Trees,
The floors of cottages strewn with Apricot pits, fleshy fruit half eaten
By the Birds, nestled into fertile Earth, and sprouted Life
rising fresh from pichest soil.
We ate of the fruit, now rested in the Golden Afternoon, which
Reached beyond the fringe of Time,
The fleshy pulp of Apricots the strands of bygone Universes,
Which taught us how to slumber there among
The petals and the Wind.
Christian Reid Oct 2014
till my aching flesh
break my hardened bones
plough my thirsting roots
prune my reaching arms
‘til all that once
I called my self
falls to the ground, gathered in a heap
—to fuel some future fire;
withers away, composting into the earth
—released to fertilize;
dries up, evaporating into clouds
—set free to fly;
leaks out, running off into ground waters
—flowing to the ocean;
rearrange me ‘til the changes
smudge the image,
blur the reflection,
futilize differentiation
between past and present,
here and there,
this and that,
life and death.
Christian Reid Oct 2014
can you spare some change
i could really use a little
get back up on my feet
feel the ground beneath the street
all i got’s this little beat that’s
pushin pulmonary particles through
passages inside me
it’s a losing battle
but i wage it anyway
every day
there’s no point, just a pulse,
just that rhythm driving chemicals
through channels unknown
Christian Reid Oct 2014
I come into being through
The tips of leaves
And transmit through roots into
The Earth

My planetary patience
Moves mountains
Without a whisper

I carve canyons
With my breath
And digest continents
In my bile

I come out of being through
Knowledge
And return to it through
Wisdom
Christian Reid Oct 2014
We could walk the craggedy side-
Walks
stubborn old Trees sending their roots
beneath them to better prop themselves up—
looking out over cascading rooftops and through
our Smog—
so they could make out the orange hum of a
California Afternoon sun reflecting off
the distant ocean.
joyous Willows drawing the lanes of the neighborhood avenues
tried to entangle their dancing threads in our hairs
As we traversed the mountainous sidewalks
onto which our melting 65-cent popsicles dripped
dye-drenched cherrybombs next to our plastic-soled sneakers—
And we snuck past gardens overrun by passionately-blossoming
Vines and wild rose bushes, where the paths changed every day
And wind chimes sang listlessly from sagging walls with cracked paint,
Our backpacks jingled despite our silent curiosity.
Forgetting the things behind us and things ahead,
Sunshine sloshed through tree-tops onto our happy pink cheeks,
all full of sweets,
as we slowly made our way back home,
along familiar streets.
Christian Reid Oct 2014
Amber Ambrosia
Precipitates Pyrolytically
Condensates Copiously
Onto Open
Minds Melting
Barriers Building
Connections Creating
Decadent Daydreams
With Wild
Living Landscapes
Christian Reid Oct 2014
I am the borrowed time giver
I wait by the edges of beds
I prop up the corners and smooth out the wrinkles
I'm also the turner of heads

I am the lone sea breaker
My whisper it shepherds your dreams
You have awoken on a
Distant shore, it seems

I am the voice of antiquity
Tethered to leaves on the wind
I am the cloth that covers you
When you have sinned

I am the borrowed time lender
Your hope, it rides on my wings
I am the broken mind mender
All I can do is offer you these things

Mine is the touch of changes
Though none of them I can claim
I sweep up the mirror pieces
That reflect your shame

I am the blind leading the blind
I have no secret gift
The truth is what you'll find
When the veil you needn't lift

We are the worm food growers
The crawlers, they rule from below
They eat up the dead and squeeze out the living
And time marches on just so
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