A moment in time, not about yams, but about the fleeting sense of "almost if" or that aggrandizing stench of delusion (which in time will merge, if the phoneticists are right, with disillusion) ... Be good to this, because it is copyright 2000 by Fresleven Music:

Moonlit Nights in the Sierra Madre

I was fishing for your love
I was paddling a big love canoe
Sliding silently up next to you
Imagining elastically just what you'd do
We could've been seven miles up
Amid the Peruvian Andes
Basking in the solar ray
Or bathing in the lunar spray
For seven moonlit nights
Alone in the Sierra Madre

I was sitting on your feet
At the foot of the mountain's mountainous sway
Trying to keep you from slipping away
Imagining enthusiastically just what you'd say
You tried to be like ether drops
You cried with vaporous intent
Left with the river's rash descent
And paddling, I joined the fray
For seven hundred miles
Alone in the Sierra Madre

Across fictional geographies
Into realms of the imaginary
I chased a dream, a moonlit dream
Alone in the Sierra Madre


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