Poem- "On a Thinking Cloud to Tehachapi"

On a Thinking Cloud to Tehachapi

                                   

Tehachapi is as away as near

                                    in summer romance and beyond my fresh hands.
                                    Disputes can be so brittle
                                    since lovers may select my force
                                    by playing blue moves on laidback beginnings.
                                    Sure, there’s truth in motion, but lies are quick.
                                    Who can spin the candle a little,
                                    dancing waves in the room that lives?
                                    I’m true to the settlements,
                                    as roses can be quite blank,
                                    a cinch of gravy in a basket

                                    and pleased

                                    for a pirate’s rock cold mix
                                    of springs and yellow lime.
                                    Presently I’m busy for thirst
                                    and I count the numbness,
                                    dressed in macho logos
                                    and understood by nurses who reveal,
                                    as I come in full crush,
                                    to be something
                                    to Ventura’s good bulldog
                                    and totally hit the planks again,
                                    across from a barn wall in Saticoy
                                    and rich in the full pictures.
                                    I stir the vodka’s peach flavorettes
                                    with chocolate por vidrio,
                                    as I know the ages
                                    I regress from in flying colors,
                                    how enlarged in whole,
                                    this spirit in a kindle,
                                    leaking candy in starburst extraction,
                                    becoming people again
                                    with a spare for spikes,
                                    hungry for whatever desire in consciousness,
                                    here for there as everywhere
                                    by the gross inferno with disgusting measures,
                                    off the beats and eggs
                                    for personality flight,
                                    along mystical asphalt,
                                    slapped with feet
                                    undergoing as much going an exotic travel,
                                    paying eye,
                                    a living sum,
                                    with a mentality for Socată and Medieval Margaritas,
                                    numb at close quarters
                                    with a spit of sugar
                                    and normal dollar allowance,
                                    taking cans of joy
                                    with pear concentration
                                    and citrus depression.
                                    Sometimes I sleep while I wake
                                    to subtle evening dreams,
                                    taking a sip I heavily breathe
                                    for remembrance,
                                    imagining a considerable fusion
                                    of cider and punches
                                    on a boathouse in low key menthol exuberance,
                                    and I’m becoming people again,
                                    a patient learner of the wrong Spanish
                                    by a divan of pinned cushions,
                                    as I’m soft for nightmare steeds

                                    with plenty of fish to drink poetry from. 

*This is an illustration of my drinking and cultural interests, as well as the depression I had while being in Ventura after my schizophrenia event, so phrases like “citrus depression” and “wrong Spanish” are just examples of some of these corrupted feelings.  Honestly, I only belong to an American party because I have little choice; besides, I don’t think Democrats would approve of what I do.  I’m the kind of guy who gets influenced by business names and attempts to create phrases which contain words that don’t go together.  Meaning alone isn’t always key to good poetry; you also need visuals and textual graphics to portray your imagination; otherwise, there’s just small talk with unpowerful appeal.  This is a poem about drinks!  Toast!

Socată!
By Bogdan29roman (Own work) [CC BY-SA 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)], via Wikimedia Commons
https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/d/dd/Socat%C4%83_sticl%C4%83.jpg
https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File%3ASocat%C4%83_sticl%C4%83.jpg