Stars undiminshed by a HUGE waning moon emerging
over Cascades we sit @
Jimi's
grave, the modest stone of Jimi Hendrix Forever in Our Hearts.
              Dipper visible it
              follows our surreptitious adventure
              as
              we
              walk hand-holding across the cemetary grounds.   I'm
                             dining
                             on sound,   on
                             memories
                             of a
                             guitar played backwards on Red House   ELECTRIC  air
                             shaped into the burn we knew it was
                             as
                             an illigitimate war against people w/
                             almond eyes drained the life force from us.
Scattered your stain
from
1942 a war year
to
1970 a war year     bombs @ Woodstock
leave your guitar / pain of the unwilling accomplice
tonight that does not matter
our
own focus is Crosstown Traffic  - so hard to get through to you    our
present
of
fire  is a candle lit & stuck on your tombstone.
              So, too your guitar so
              hot for a burn either fom your fingers or
              it
              can be finished off w/ matches, burn &
              litter the stage @ Monterey
              it's a scream mimicking the napalmed, we feel terror in our
              bowels to be the unwilling accomplice
              above our heads the planes still roar / help to take
              what's
              left
of what won't satisfy the burn within while we sit on your
bones & write to you.
                             No mercy in the attack as
                             bones rest / notes still
                             fly - a machine gun of Stratocaster
                             &
                             hear
                             the blood come out of fingers - hear Them Changes.  We leave a
                             candle
                             burning figure it will help someone else get through to you.
                                            Could
                                            be the haze purple over Mountains Olympics could be
                                            hair gray before its day could be your guitar wail of
                                            lost opportunities to live
                                            in harmony eros over civilization    a
                                            candle
                                            light instead of a dark night YOUR light still
                                            emanating
                                            from something stellar, otherworldly, certain from
                                            an
                                            incredulous
                                            burn.
The
shadow emerges as wind does
runs away, catches us somehow
licking our wounds we can plug you in let it all return to the sea.
Scotch
tape left from yet another paying respect I peel it
from
your
gravestone & wait to write
              or remember a little loose jam, Johnny B. Goode
              rushing from a guitar in a hurry
              by James Marshall Hendrix - six string seity who still burns forever
              in our hearts
              amazement not containable   it's
              written
              in our
              eyes, it's pure
              fire
              & the process of alchemical calcination
              so
              many memories are burning.  A nearby treebranch
              creaks
              & the wind
              cries
              Mary.

9:47AM—8.29.02
508 E. Main
#E

          Stars over Jimi's grave
Dipper,   follows as we walk
  dining  on memories of
guitar  shaped as an almond
    scattered   from  1942—1970
    leave   tonight  our  own
present of fire   so hot
it can  litter its bowels
  above   what's left of
  bones.  No, bones fly and
hearing  the candle burning.
Could be   hair lost in candle
light  emanating from an incred-
ulous burn,   the shadow runs
licking  scotch tape from your
grave,   or  rushing  by  in
amazement   written in eyes,
fire &  so many creaks and
cries  Mary.

11:24PM—8.28.02