I could use a lift to the moon and back
on Ralph Cramdens fist,
or wait, not Ralph's -
was it Ralph's?
Do I have severe memory loss?
The kind that needs treatment?
The kind that is pathological not just my usual spacey self who has smoked too much dope in her lifetime and could probably benefit from a few doses of homeopathic Cannabis indica to wipe all that spaciness and wasted time away?
The question is, do I really want to cure myself of this spaciness? It can be very pleasant, after all, just sitting on the porch watching the leaves wave around, wondering how the sun gets through the leaf to its underside so that the very bottoms of the leaves will glow to my eyes. It's quite pretty that leaf, those leaves, and I can get absolutely enmeshed with them, send out my chi to them so we are all enveloped by plasma, no technology needed. Much better than bulbs burning the skin, don't you think? Just me, the cats, the dogs, the plants and the leaves allowing whatever it is that turns the world to keep turning the little bits of our worlds.
This is my entry to 
I'm trying to get back into freewriting more regularly. It can be so exhiliarating! Makes me wanna get up off my derriere and do something!
I used Eggtimer while I madly wrote, then made proofreading corrections only. I had fun! It started off as a poem, morphed into prose, then ended with bits of a poem I wrote many years ago. That poem went something like this:
Skim this lake
with the wingtip of your tongue
dart, turn, skip, twist, glide.
then rest with me here for a bit
so our worlds can turn
without my having to push mine.
Thank you for reading!
