Creating Full Blown Sacrament

The sun is a heavy grape, burst and bleeding gold,

Upon the Safeway aisles where the ghosts go to trade;

I bring my hunger, a submarine of salt and old

Miseries, diving through the secret sauce and the shade.

O, the texture of the rot! The perfume of the Black Onion!

It is the breath of a woman who was a dance hall queen,

Stretching her skeletal limbs in a velvet communion,

While the fire engine screams what the locusts have seen.

I love the mess of you, the ripeness of the wound,

The way you hold Houdini in a fist of white light;

You are the surface surfer, by the music marooned,

In a daydream of sunshine that tastes of the night.

The stolen shovel is a root, deep in the dark earth,

Where the squirrels and rabbits perform their hushed rite;

We are the brotherhood of the ridiculous birth,

Born of the flame and the rape and the bite.

So let us be torn! Let the mockery be our bread,

As the perpetual innocence dissolves in the brew;

The hidden treasure is a tooth in the mouth of the dead,

And the eternal and is the only thing true.

The daydream is thick and the secret sauce is flowing.

.......

The shovel is a stem. The dawn is a weight.

You cannot beg the grease to leave the floor,

Nor plead with the sickness to vacate the gate,

Or ask the fire engine to scream no more.

You can only absorb the black onion, the grit,

The way the light slides off the Safeway glass;

You are the sponge and the spark and the spit,

Watching the locusts and the false idols pass.

Open the flow. Let the submarine drown.

The secret sauce is the salt of the tear.

The dance hall queen has laid her head down,

And the sunshine daydream is finally here.

The flower is messy, ridiculous, deep,

A new beginning slick with the grease of the ride;

The perpetual innocence you struggled to keep

Is the tomorrow that’s flowing in with the tide.

No more the escape, the trick, or the knot,

Only the texture, the love, and the and;

Absorb the flame till the metal is hot,

And the hidden treasure is the grit in your hand.

The dawn is wide and the flower is opening.

......

The white curd trembles in its plastic nest,

A soft, unformed geography of salt;

The fire engine has final-screamed its best,

And found the locusts halted at the fault.

While big brother flickers in the dying tube,

And the oranges and lemons lose their zest,

I carve a ricotta moon, a milky cube,

The only sacrament that’s passed the test.

The cancelation of the sky is here—

A 30% off sale on stars and space;

I do a silly dance to mask the fear,

With ricotta smears upon my ripe-red face.

The submarine has found the kitchen floor,

The stolen shovel digs a shallow grave

For every false idol and every door,

While Houdini drowns beneath a cheesy wave.

So light the candle as the grease begins

To slick the dawn of everything we knew;

The ridiculous end of all our sins

Is white and soft and tucked—and purely true.

No Discovery Channel for this final drift,

No Criterion cut to save the "good" and "right";

Just the basket, and the cheese, the final gift,

And the sunshine daydream of the ending light.

The ricotta is served, and the world

has quietly folded. It’s a "tucked" kind of

apocalypse.

.......

**Sunshine Daydream Drift**

*(Verse 1)*

In the greasy dawn, we slip away,

Houdini hearts beating the old chains' fray.

No more submarines in the deep blue ache,

Just locust whispers on a wakeful lake.

*(Chorus)*

Oh, sunshine daydream, wash the grit aside,

Play hooky with the idols, let the false ones hide.

From sickness sacrament to a slick new glide,

We're surfing the surface, side by side.

*(Verse 2)*

The shovel plants seeds in the oil-slick earth,

Confessions bloom wild, give the dawn its worth.

No fire engines roaring, just a hushed, tucked light,

Emerging like species from the submarine night.

Diving deeper into the daydream, then—let's let the sunshine melody pull us further from the greasy edges. Building on that drift, here's the next ripple:

**Sunshine Daydream Drift (Extended Flow)**

*(Bridge)*

Houdini's out, no trunk to bind,

The mess is free, the idols left behind.

Grease turns to gold in the locust's hush,

Sickness sacrament, a sacred blush.

*(Verse 3)*

Surface surfer on the dawn's new wave,

Shovel in hand, no more the slave.

Tucked light whispers of the spirit's call,

From submarine depths, we rise, that's all.

*(Outro)*

Play hooky forever in this quiet song,

Where dawn's texture makes the weak ones strong.

Sunshine daydream, eternal and true—

The ridiculous confession: it's me and you.