The Cog

Once in a Blue Moon, I discovered organic strawberry jam oozing over a freshly toasted english muffin; and with a cup of some brahmsian tea, I was suspended in veranda sunrises, in the shade of an ocean breeze.

Shadows slip away, washed by the motion of seas, contained in a moment, endlessly rocking with the free flowing liquid of dreams. Jam oozing, oozing and moving, ebbing and spreading spontaneous creation into fragments of bliss called Jam ooza. This is the place where Jamooza resides, within and without you as the shifting of tides and the waves of the ocean meets the moon in the sky.

It’s a state of living and being meant to capture cool air, bubbling up from the currents and into the glare of the still turning movements and ripples of time, heading straight towards the streams of the consciousness I. Where creative intelligence with all of its signs, wielding words of obscurity that must signify, jam spread over landscapes of living absurdity, while RON PAUL is still serving a slice of American Pie.