Snails move slow on a regular Friday, "Regula",

A friend of mine, whom defies the very meaning of the word.

I think its his life work to prove that word wrong

breaking patterns and spaces between meanings

Like him, this day is as regular as perpetual motion

and things in flux

Yet some call it normal, regular, same, Friday

just the day after Thursday, day before Saturday, two days before death

a week after birth

a day

another one of its kind

like and unlike the others

in the sense that no day is the same

and the very moment you read this,

is a accumulation of every moment before

a big picture

a life mural

a paradigm time line out of time and quite aligned with

with

with

what?

most will never know, never guess, never assume

"cant"

"wont"

"unable"

all words we set before us like a table

filled and made but no one eats at it

however the stand points and current state of present timing

space time worm holes and alien motor cars

all whirl about my childish head

while my body calls, cry's out to be grounded below the earth

into the sand

rooted

in the sacred grounds my forefathers sleept on

sleep in

toiled

produced fruit on

my childish head wants sleep, food, sex.

my soul wants rest, mana, love.

my body craves the empty expansive canyons and the high flying hawks.

my inbox wants your snails.

redoubled dedication for a day leaves me corresponding to myself.

where is the Gypsy Queen?

giving symposiums on love and Informing Americas?

Is she planting bombs of truth in the house of the poor?

Can I help her?

Each path taken is windy or straight.

each day regular and irregular.

each statement perceptual precipatation rained down in html.

noted and un-noted.

my love is for her.

for you.

the world.

So,

when I go outside,

I will not come back in.

don't bother asking.