black cream green violet red the purple is just the grapes you smell no violet on the board red with silver spokes gleaming like the piles of sawdust dancing with the wind pushing sunshine over the porch. all boxed now the doors take one two tries stained like bare feet running bases wind with scent of purple blowing the taste of rain is in the air around the corner. red shift tells us how far away and how fast galaxies are moving by counting the seconds between lightning and thunder you can find out how far from the storm you are.
what I really want to do is take you home where my home really is and sit on my porch during a horrible storm the kind where you get wet from the knees down even though you're standing in the middle of the porch lightning flashes blue-bright-beautiful like you-eyes-shining that night when you told me I was trouble but danced with me for ever anyway and we rocked back and forth on the dance floor sweating and pulsating with the crowd close hips and rolling words not caring because I'm lying in the fresh cut grass breathing in quick because my back is itchy and my face is growing red but the sun is holding me down like a playful lover and hell it smells like summer the back door opens and the air tastes like rain and I get up and for that one perfect moment you are the barefoot child in your own backyard with a homemade papertowel-roll kaleidoscope squinting one eyed with your sun viewer. Somehow, through the grace and glory of your chaotic run-around, you twist and jump and fly - just right - for one moment the kaleidoscope bursts into a perfection of angles and wavesong of colors before you forget how you got there and lose that moment; then it's gone. the hardest storm is the best to listen to with the chaos of percussion and the rhythm of the waterdrops. you can hear the change from pavement to pond if you run through the waterfalls and find the trail leading back to the tracks. the water rushes violetly-nonoviolently I cant smell the grapes anymore I'm breathing hard where did the lawn go? everything smells like cows the sky is burning but I dont hear any flames
There are two dart boards at the dive bar two blocks uptown. There are never enough darts for two games at the same time. Four darts in the whole house means you've gone on a good night. They (experts on the sport of dart throwing) suggest to focus intently on the cork (or other target) and then relax your stare as you throw. Look at the target, but see the whole board for that split second and release.
This is sniping. This is drawing in a breath, letting half of it out, and squezzing (never pull) the trigger.
For that one moment (I say moment because a second is far too long) you are aware of every physical aspect in the room; you can sketch the gravity riptides that will pull the dart off course as it flies home. The moment of clarity (for the unobservant) as you let your gating mechanism loose to shut out the voice of our taunting friend while the wind rushes in the open door fifty feet away. You aim, throw, and hit your mark in the space of a moment, and for that one perfect moment you feel fresh cut grass purple grapes; bleeding violetgreen between toes theres no Coppertone in this part of the world. skinned knees and dust stained fingers from hurling catches from right field and peeling red noses and wet orange skin and wearing sunlight like it's the new style smiling before it's gone the sky is white with floating little patches of blue I see the sun. Remember, even if the moment is gone you will always have the memory, and this is what you can see whenever you need to smile because I smell the grapes and it's summertime