across missouri's back and into france

8/14/2019 Across Missouri's Back and Into France

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Across Missouri’s Back

and Into France

By Matthew Preston



(Approach)

Road ways up north are sine waves.

Vocal patterns of ancient

mountainous beasts

Etched onto a canvas of dirt and

pavement.

Breaths are mountains.

Roads are veins of my mother.

Little fleshy blood cell I ride the

river.

God-pause breaths between on-

ramps birthing white lightning--

riding my spine down to Amentia.

Ash trees bleed dust onto my

spectacles.

I know somewhere deep within the

forestry

Beyond the machinations of men,

baby Ash trees weep softly into the

arms of Gaea.



(Arrival)

Eighteenth century, sixties reworked

six bedroom houses

Cut into one room apartments where

culture hides in smallcrevices in the old oak

staircase.

Creaks of lacquered wood under

heavy feet are the cranky

Whines of ancient trees; cut, formed

and sanded ages past.

Three languages echo equally

between walls of Missouri

blood

And sand.

In English I discuss Sartre with a

French man.

In Spanish the French man tells his

wife how even

the languages of romance could not

adequately describe

his love for her.

In English his wife asks me if I'd likesome water?

Tea perhaps?

I answer with a nod,

no words--

a sentence written

in movement--

multicultural, universal .



(Night Rides

through the Radio)

Million year old shoulders

coated in year old grass

are green oceans of sideways

waves where tiny pixie

like creatures without wings

ride beetle back surf boards--

at night you can see their

excitement light up like

a short circuiting planetarium,

or a thousand little pixie

stoners sparking a midnight bowl

in prayer to the moon.



(Novelty)

I have never seen a moon so full,

so radiant. I have never seen the

clouds

gathered around it with an inner

angle

so perfectly symmetrical

to the moons center. They are not

clump

clouds, bulky and domineering.

These are dark, harvest yellow

leather,

the outer epidermis of

some enormous, reverent creature

come prove it piousness to its mother

goddess.



(Love)

We sit in circles,

we pass stories around

in a peace pipe and offer

our smoky tales to the trees

and croaking toads. We spark

fires discussing our desires of

equanimity and

our laughter we offer up

in abundance for some

enormous, reverent beast

to drink.

Our moment is our offering.

From nine different worlds

we've accumulated

to this

These nine egos:

Six scared little girlsThree angry little boys.

Nine horny Ids.



(Summation

of Euphoria)

Laughter is our drunkenness.

All our life: Zero sum.

So we find the positives in

every

negative,

that we might be at peace

in what is new, in what is frightening

and

dangerous to our ignorance.

Laughter is our panacea.

Our Mana in the Desert

across missouri's back and into france

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