Autumn leaves have begun to fall. Late October London is ablaze in hues of orange and purple. On my bench by the river I daydream that I am an adolescent reptile escaped from Kafka’s Die Verwanlung laid back basking in the sun. The air is layered in cologne, men do notinterest me now. I am content to casually observe. To my advantage I know all about them while they know so little about me. Thinking of you against my wishes, dying a little, dead all the sweet hope and dreams never realized, I imagine my earthly body padded,sat beside yours on a grassy knoll breathing in the scent of lilac and the mossy green River Delta. In the dark I am nude but for a shadow across my torso. You are so near and to distract myself from…
It’s official!Boogapony Holly is on tour! After ponying on down to a slew of Chicago’s street art, she took off in a Paco Rabanne chain link mini dress w/ Go-Go boots.
She bought this art car, to make the trip to Monterey, California. Although 54 years late to the summer of love party, its spirit beckoned.
Celeste bagged the job of driving Boogapoy’s old van. Along with on loading, off loading and setting up, she’s a pretty good back up dancer; a true Poniette.
Don’t miss the magic,as they hit some of the nation’s sweetest street art and attractions along Route 66.
Miles of Route 66 are un-drivable. Interstate detours are necessary. In Missouri, over 300 miles run SW from St. Louis to Joplin. Fab diners & vintage roadside attractions are all waiting for the Boogapony experience & photo op.
interlacing tendrils weaving
desert sand, bodies
stretching, giving way,
every ripple replicated
In the amber sand.
The night desert is damp
With dewdrops of sweet dreams
where each sigh is a vow.
Silently I inscribe
Arabesque across the grain of your skin so when you awaken you will remember.
Your jeans are tight on your thighs, you are unshaven, I think you are beautiful. I’m surprised that I notice, I never really see you anymore. We linger by the duck pond where you pull a packet of bread crumbs from your back pocket. Feathery creatures rush up as though they know you. Lately when we make love it is without passion. My mind wanders to other men I’ve known, I wonder about them, where they are, what became of them. I never want you to know. You are pure, trusting, so naive darling it it is frightening. Lovers pass by, they don’t speak. One is distracted, detached. The other emaciated with the eyes of a corpse, like a woman who loves but is far away.
Your eyes are Himalayan blue, they mutate like the colors of sparkling stars to a silver cold planet. Your indifference defeats me until I am nothing more than an empty vessel sailed away to write love letters on diaphanous sails of a windward sloop. When your nights are long and you are far from home, you may find me in the brush of a homeless Chartreux winding about your feet or in the sunflower eyes of a gypsy girl waiting by the harbor.
Ich vermag kaum, den Glanz der Welt zu enthüllen, ihre Wunder schmälern noch meine Winzigkeit. Details von Augen und Ohren und Zunge, stumm, erstaunt vom Versprechen eines Sonnenaufgangs. Vornehme Bäume erheben ihre erhabenen Arme, mächtige Götter im Gebet, Gastgeber unzähliger Geschöpfe, abgezupft in rot und grün, Füllhörner mit Nüssen und Beeren zieren ihre edlen Kronen. Ich möchte das Meer durchsegeln, winziger Fleck, der ich bin, ein geflügelter Vogel, Träger keines Besitzes, ein erfreuliches Fragment des Alls, einem jeden sichtbar.