Not the mama, the dinosaurs was my favorite show

The rural vibe is not the mama 

The street light centurions are not the mama

I remember that my voice is beauty because it is the black hole of the night from which embers burst.   Why must I be drawn into the dark like little red riding hood into the woods? Why must I be hungry like the wolf, ravenous from a Yellowstone planetary arctic.. 

Fursocious for truth like, “ the northwoods is not my mama.”. tucked under the hip of a mighty pelvic bowl .. the Great Lakes region a pure water way region... unsalted seas

I like to think that “keeper of the fire” is a varying translation, and that keeping fire like the sky keeps fire, in perfect harmony...  takes  purity, honesty, courage, the seven teachings and the boiling speed of love 

I looked outside the window tonight at a town that sirens me twice a day like a Rusty rake to an empty metal tummy. My incisors quiver, i am a wild thing and this is a wild land.. you are not the mama, or the papas

 i saw the night forest the fogs Entering into the village.. i see ancient of daze like a glitch in my Unconscious for a moment... but this moment merges like pure blood reheated in a warming ice stream.. the perks of global warming, dinosaurs roam free again in the descendants of its reciprocal time frame. 

the earth is round the way is horizontal... or doth we defy gravity and stand as if we are majestic trees full and untrammeled attempting to impersonate a manufactured metal pole...ordered unto control. 

The northwoods is so not my mama, everybody do the dinosaur