i_listen_to_my_words pete "...but they fall far below..." the harvest moon hung over the river. all around it was like a beer commercial. everyone was drinking bud, a volleyball game was just ending, girls were swimming, the barbeques were out, and groups of drunk guys wandered the property. the stars slowly came out, until the sky was lit by the moon and the stars. it wasn't too much like a beer commercial, because of the beans, the lines, the shrooms and the joints going through the groups, each person to chose his posion. standing by the water's edge i scanned southern sky. somewhere beyond the first line of islands lay the united states. mars hung in the south east, signalling his territory. there were no fights, everyone found a place to sleep, and water was shared with the drinks. i stood there transfixed, my eyes on the god, and then scanning the sky for constellations. orion's western hip was lost behind trees. i rose on the highs and sank with the depths of the party. we were living for the night. for this one day where the owners invite us to their cottage, showing us how our labour allows them excessive luxary, and say "have fun." we swam to the bouy and back, ever on the look out for speed boats, as the sun set in her glory. above the clouds formed to birds. one flew with the setting sun, staying in the light blue, the other heralded night, flying with the love. 050822 ... pete his first thoughts of a cloudy day, rejecting the pillow and laying still staring in to the sky above his head wondering and hoping and dreaming and becoming. a moment, or two, of realization settling beneath the urge to live, hearing the calls for charity and calculating his incomes and expenses, only to find the former lacking and the latter at a bare minimum. the sights of orange and green, grey and gold, filter through his eyes settling, again, where becoming begins and he sighs to the world, with a smile, eyes closed, feeling her lips, though she's absent, and has been for more than a few days, looking forward, blindly, knowing what will come in the future, seeing her as a becoming figure, as himself, flustered by the changing forms of reality, looking at the degree, the piece of paper, realizing that only those within have a realization of what it truly means, the combination of history and hunger, into a mosaic so brilliant, combining again. he falls far far below, knowing and wishing, lusting for the stars to be his playground, but always becoming, never being. 051103 what's it to you? who go blather from