Sure, that's the picture - A once noble gram now turns to a shallow comparison of memory and feeling. Every time that the planet shifts beneath the foot, a complacent sigh rests in the clouds; it's an omen of flight, don't deny the pleasure of the aloft. As it was once said, "That's what you're asking for." And thus she asked of me:
April showers amidst dark bowers,
stretch solemn the dusty walls,
Armpits of street deep and dead towers,
And fit to the task of the catering calls.
When he awoke,
he found beside
him,
a poem like a joke,
a phrase inside,
"Don't let the shadows go!" was the echo that murmured past the ears of those asleep and those awake. The awake are the more-important, for amongst them was the one true one true..
Meager days after a failed experiment, the pen runs again, down down the page, across and over into unknown places of deepest inquiry. Man o man, never trust one, never. They just don't hang on the same wire, they're just running on their own rules. It has nothing to do with me. I have to keep that clear, have to have it in my forebrain, no mistakes, I can cause myself too much damage. Everyone else glimpses the ripples on the surface, as the blasting current below tears up the sea floor.
I entered a bad agreement one day,
Placing bets upon where my soul could lay,
In fact, it was quite comfortable in that bed,
Lo, it rolled me right off, and I lost my head,
So now I look no more for such place,
And of that contract I try to leave no trace,
But the future is questionable, my friend,
So hedge all bets until you've tasted the end.
An apparition came to the doctor the day before the operation to warn him of the lines he would cross. After all else failed, the poor doctor flung himself to the wall.
And here we've been. Tomorrow is serious mail day. And I do mean serious. Every little letter you'd ever want to write, write. Postcard, envelope, the gear, the script, all together it means communication. Ha ha. Sure it does. A communicable point, right? And what holds the forward door? How can one assume by whence they came? There's rarely a connection twixt the two. And off and off they go. Work, work, work, and never stop, until that day that's planned and has your hand in its unveiling. So we go, off and off.
Captions beneath the frame,
denoted little to his brain,
And after he had looked enough,
He pulled out some gloppy stuff,
that he'd been hoarding all week,
From ever since he'd been called meek,
By that big and ugly, traveling sheik.
Hands clasped hands as the feet shuffled past. Words were mumbled, half-somber, half not. Cold hands, warm hands, thin, dead hands. Words of light-spoken trappings or full of low rumble.
Anyway, the time went well, and times may continue in such direction. Ye shall zee.
I should've called. I should call. I might call, but who can speak? Who can utter. Who has the ghost? The power? There's hope deep in the ocean trench, where the glowing predators play amongst the ancient, chrome bones of those creatures we all knew to be truly bad, and spawned of dark domain. Hunted, as they were, we ran as far and as fast as out friends could take us. So what if the ride was short or long?
In another room, a game goes on,
between living, and against non-,
So we listen intently, our glass to the wall,
hearing small cries as the creature does fall,
and hopelessly returns,
only to be played off with melodic call.
And when it's all over, when it's all been joined,
after hopes are fed, or dreams purloined,
There will stay one soul,
to carry the bowl,
And give it another try.
So, lately things are confusing. Doubts are my worst doppelgangers. They come in all shapes and sizes, disguised as some important folk, sometimes as a type of hope. But in the end, the rub's the rub. Turn the dial, poke the plastic buttons, speak vibratory-english into a magnet, and see what grows therefrom. Phuture!
Things are going, still don't know where.
He screamed, "There's a fire in the screen
in the hole in the bowl!"
Don't worry, it's only
my alone, not lonely
Dog wrapped in bologna.
That was tough.
Scratch my feet.
Work work work, right?
Please, please please, ¿sí?
Hope hope hope, yes.
Was that the midnight caller? A little tardy, one might quip.
One hour later, the phone rings two and two thirds times. He enters in his memois, "Damn if she doesn't know how to make one wonder."
After seven years, one begins to feel like a world has escaped them, one inhabited by brighter beings.
Well, what's to be said, when all is done; something unlike the bad dreams, yet not quite the best. Well, it's a perspective, that's the key to understanding why we cling to our objects and how they stand in relation to us.
I can go on and on, and I'm sure some of you would wish for nothing more, but there are greater things to waste time on. That's not true. That's certainly not true. So we flow, on and on and on.
Feeling, sensation, a form to the touch,
When, at the bottom, you'd hope for such,
At the top you'd think it wasn't much,
And so 'tis always denied you.
Take a pleasure from out a dream,
Secure a thought from out the stream,
And hearken back to word's bright beam,
It can only be worth, true.
Begin the story about the tribe, the unholy alliance of land dwellers that ran throughout the plain with a bloody hand and tarnished soul.
Lapsing again into oldtime rhetoric, the lips begot the foul lythargy of crushed action upon dialeptic dream. So, the infinite reach, the space we call non-home, where does the sign tell us how clear and less of matter it is. Nothing is without matter. Damned if I won't create the matter myself, the meaning or symbolism of the most recalcitrant object, bring it to sight.
Over the ridge came a quick, dark coach,
The mares ahead shone like opals afire,
And as the specter withing did approach,
The mere daisies by the road did expire.
Those in the town knew of the plague,
Knew of the rats and the dark cage,
From the town of his name, Prague,
To the playful enrichment of rage.
There was one door, one exit, one entry. It pealed like bells to the eye, amidst the crowded interior, or the bleak, lonely night.
Getting back to the game, making it happen a fast as possible, now. Strangely, my script is no worse. Odd, speed is of the S.ence, dig? Tradewind blow north galleons to shores, Freedom's by choice. Just a wash, nothing, a little here, a little there. An image? How about a house, standing out of the darkness. It's a creamy color, the roof is lightly brown. There is no garage, just symmetry: a window here, a window there, a door in between, all in white. The windows are dark, but the door opens to reveal a light shade about half its size on the other side. Moving in, it becomes a rail, a yellow, solid rail with finished wood laying atop it. On the other side of the rail, down, down, is the lower floor, the cellar. The steps begin directly below the lip of that railway and climb their way to our level about thirty-five feet away. The cellar is dark, so are the stairs. the railway makes a perfect rectangle surrounding the hole, for that's what it was, and you don't want to fall in, do you?
Opposite from where we stand, there is a gate, black, metal gleaming. The light illuminating is from above.
Things are starting to get ridiculous, tending to the point of absurdity, day in and out. Time spent, truly, and who's to say, when things pile up, how high they can stretch? But, a vacation is a vacation, as far as I can tell. Great times are waiting for investment.
A cadre, a group, a band,
all collected atop the plush hill.
Below lay the pearly sand,
And before them lay a test of will.
Some might say near the end,
That something went wrong,
Though they know of the way things tend,
So they'd come back strong.
They did. And so it was
the beginning, the start,
Curved back as it does,
Just before they're forced to part.
An organization of time, again,
And few can call it art.
The time he looked up was consumed in staggering, shocking, terror of the kind only in the darkest of flashes, deep, deep at night. In his eyes hovered an unfocused image that filled his belly with disgust and forced his lower lip to tremble, as if to cry. As the ghoulish slime held before him, he could only notice its proximity.
Is everything not as all right as I left it? As I continue to leave it? Happy B-Day, Phill.* Blank. Blank. There's so much to think of these days, and so little of it goes on a page. What's to fear? There's no such thing as fearing fear, you're never really afraid of fear. Wary, perhaps.
He reached down to the patch of grass beside his foot and picked out the good-sized rock. Why he needed to do so was not apparent to himself, nor, for that matter, to his assailant, a fact that nearly made her flee the scene in its unexpected nature. Instead, she held fast to the post by which she'd been standing since noon that day.
The rock was grey, and smooth. It was somewhat oval, certainly oblong. There were thousands of tiny pits about its surface. Occasionally a brown speck would sit beside a darker swatch. All in all quite unremarkable in most respects. Except that it had caused what had become very real discomfort for some two inches above his right temple. The throbbing was there, and getting faster.
He finally looked up, and from out of his hat brim he saw a female standing across the walk, her back to the sun and her hand on a post. She was squinting at him and he was a while in realizing that she was mimicking the odd gaze that he was returning her for the sake of her rock. He blinked his eyebrows up high, and watched as she gathered her satchel and began to walk towards the crowd.
What more can be said,
after all the time has flown,
When we miss the Dead,
and their dreams are not our own?
Nothing but sighs,
Nothing.
*
Once more around the mulberry bush. Nothing but nothing, for true. Bleu. So, do I have to listen to people complain about being back for the next week? Shit, no one knows the blues like the guy who don't know how to play nothin' else. "I know how to play the blues"=danger statement. It reflects upon its own ignorance of itself. Don't let the good times get away. Don't try to rig the future. Let go, let go.
I feel like I'm manhandling my life so much that I'm not really living one. Reflections become vice. What can I do but know, and work? The future, the FUTURE! Grab hold, let go, hang on, let go.
Really running low on this literary plane. There's little holding me up. I need an experience. Shit, man, I just missed one, big time. What now? I'm locked up for quite a while. I've got to make the most of the escape opportunities, and tell myself that it's for my mental fortitude, and not like I'm hoarding them in fear of a bleak tomorrow. There's no way I can believe that, just no way. And continue to carry on, that is.
What of that other question? Like I said, let go, let's see. Don't crowd it out, just let it be. Whatever it is will show itself, it will evolve according to its nature. Don't try to pin it down, rend it, play it around, just let go, all the way.
A questioned beauty awaits her trial,
As the jurors enter rank and file,
Followed close by the blind witness,
Questioning now her own fair fitness.
So it looks bad, but it doesn't feel too bad. Yeah, in the telling I may seem to take a harsh stance towards the whole... what? Zero? Good timing on that pen refill. Now, what approaches? More of the same? Am I waiting for a future that is doomed to repeat the present? Why should I expect more to follow when nothing had lead? There were some things, but they seem so small. And lately, there's been hardly anything.
But, things can change. They have before. This mirrors the first year here. Coasting along, making way, when near the end something takes hold. I might be looking at a good start. So much to think about ahead. I'm really coasting now.
On a page, a pamphlet, or a blackened slate,
anywhere they can be they will,
over time it's necessary to relate,
and for this nothing but words can fill
The question marked.
I finally came to the point where, pen in hand, I had nothing to write. Even as I kept writing, there was nothing there. Confused, other thoughts began to take me, solid and pithy they crash into one another.
So what's to know? A week of nothing, what does it mean? Some would say bad excuse for a student and others would claim it was some anti-beatnik behavior, both of which can be lumped under the general title of bad omens for the future. They might be omens. It might have just been habit. 2 years ago I only went home; 3, I went to Canada; 4, never mind; 1, I stayed right there. Numbers are wrong.
It might be good to remember some sometime. It avoids the confusion for the other, the audience. They may wonder over your words entirely, or simply walk away remembering only what you do, which is little.
Poem in the Sunlight
Tracing the shadow of my pen,
I came upon a thought quite clear,
Which told me of when I return again,
To a place swimming in my own fear.
This vision, it seemed, was of me,
For there was no inflicting party about,
And after it passed and let me be,
I had little reason nor hope to doubt,
That when the sun today at last set,
And the shadows have grown long enough to engulf all,
There will be few places as of yet,
That don't hint of the scene into which I'll fall.
So says the young. As the old approaches, he might be awake enough to write.
Well, I probably will wait, now that I think of it how will I get back? Who knows? Making plans, setting guidelines, has been a voodoo-type magical paralyser, so enough with it all. Sometime soon things can click. Until then, I have to amble shakily, like I've done for what seems to have been a good year of bad medicine, and sort of pretend that what might be might. In such a case, might makes right.
Everything considered, when all of the tiny bits were all summed up for him, as they were near the end, he had less of a grasp on everything than he'd ever had. Sticking thoughts, that's what he blamed it on. Over and over again, phrases would remain crouching in the shady bushes of his mind, at little warning, and when he needed them least, they'd flung themselves forth and wrapped their sticky limbs around him. Rerun, that's who he was, in his mind. Over and over again. Everything considered, flinging sticks is bad, bad phrasing.
What am I supposed to write from,
When I hide away those thoughts that some,
Myself included, may one day find them,
And think only of the painted flower, but not the stem?
Hiding the real by emphasizing the little,
afraid any showing would reach to close to the middle,
of a fancy thought not true.
Should have gone, should have gone. Idiot, idiot, should have gone. Well, maybe not. Get that out of the way. Will I go? Will I wait? Hmmm.
Haven't had much more than goofy times lately. Who knows what the heck's going on. I have these time-warp memories that leave me wondering just what occurred. Soon I'll take a careful grip, get a good look, and make sure what's what is what.
Standing and writing experiment. Feet moving, spelling becomes questionable. Movement under control, words not faster that before. Think, think.
Someone exits their house down the street. Sleekly they make their way to the embarrassing car. I've stopped. I've started. They start it and produce a magical clump of horrible smoke. Now they're ready to go. The engine shuts off, and they make a return journey to their front door. When they open it, a flood of walnuts engulfs them. M.T.M. is not far behind, not long in scooting down the pile.
When I awoke yesterday, I was light of head,
Slightly light of heart and in an odd bed.
This morning I awake with many lucid thoughts,
I should have chose to travel with the Deadnaughts.
When I awake tomorrow, this will all be
hidden in a plastic cage I won't see.
Then who's to say it should have been
anyway?
When I was, oh, about twenty two or twenty three, I first began to feel the real tugs of the Goddess. I became aware that her important manifestations were striking not only in how they appeared to my eyes, and later my heart, but more so by the way they were meant to be. The ease at times was staggering, and my fears conquered those every moment. True, I needed inspiration from Bacchus so many times, just to tell me that, yes, she was she. But now when I see those times, I wish to all Gods above that I had reached out to my bright one all along.
Only in old age do we comprehend! And such a shallow memois shames us all.
Once, twice again the bottle fell out,
an escape of glass and a content of stout,
not once did it break on the cheap, ugly floor,
So never did we need to bequeath from thee more.
Enjoy, that's the word you'd used,
When selling us those lifelong tickets
to our train of booze. All abroad!
I wish there was easy access to a place, Lord knows it doesn't need people, it needn't be anything but sweet miles of land of soul. Give me a destination that sings more boldly than such hollow cries. There is a phantom calling, and I know very well that it is a dastardly one. Tempting in the least degree, evading the intimate scope, something is hidden again from sight, yet is seems made of dreams in another odd light. Can salvation be found in a place yielding only fodder in the past? Who can speculate? It would be nice. But it would be sour. Hoping to want the experience, without counting the near past as the rule. The ugly town can only cry foul to me now. No matter if the gates of heaven opened up on that spot and called all to its salvation, I would look up to see dinged columns and a rusted gate. Even the greatest something turns to the least nothing in that area. It's a plague on moving life. It's a black hole, devouring everything worth shit in this world, and turning it into a mere molding of itself, eradicating the core, the essence. The vital factor of what once was, is lost to the searchings of the now. For all I know, Mongolia has captured deep Milwaukee.
So this guy comes up to me, he says, hey he says and I can only laugh. Like he's got the right. Sure, the nerve's there, but what of the pulse? Don't let amiably, aimless crazy people ever tell you the color of the pond. There is nothing in their description that will prepare you for the depth. When small men talk of big dreams, you can only listen. When dark women show you new vision, you can only watch. When the truth asks you to recite the day, you can only cry. I hope you don't cry. I remember you crying, and hope against truth that you don't. I cried once, and, gods help me, you were the furthest thing from my mind. Racer X, Racer X.
A cold, white temple snatched upon a hill,
The dewy grey grasses are hanging there, still.
I walk up the path every day, all the day,
And ask that whoever may allow it will stay.
The heavens have opened to me only twice,
Once to tell me of needed sacrifice.
The other was a revelation I can't reveal,
And I look in your eyes and ask you to feel,
I take your hand and ask you to hear,
As I lead you to my Goddess, trying to speak softly,
to kill your fear.
You're a means to an end, never forget said..
Felt a tugging at my ethos today from the bright one above, all about missing the boat last night. I felt she was right, so now I write. All was not naught, though, for last night the cave temple took flight. See how fast I am in the morning? 1-2-3 and I'm all over it. 4-5-6 and ya get right off! Humors of the brain and ear last eons, or less than a day. There's your ultimate philosophy of mind question: Why does something funny change for us over time? It could diminish in humor until it is just another piece of time. It could reserve itself in a respected niche, thereby changing its first form. Or it could be built, massified and continue to be a new beast. What's the explanation? Money.
An open book lay upon the table,
I wished to look..but was unable,
For at that moment a wind rushed in,
And started the chimes in a roaring din.
Startled by such things I lost my place,
turning at the mirror, I saw a face,
turning towards the entrance I began to start,
when my feet hit the sand, by arms flew apart.
Terrible, wasting sun did shine down,
and placed about my eyes a bright, golden crown.
Pitching, barely standing, down the dunes,
I heard something call out from the runes.
That was the end, the story now told,
in a book of black letters inked truth bold.
Only separated by true form, endless dreams play upon the norm. There's the shadowed lass, who dotes upon terror, though her time does pass. I'd like to know her, to let her in. There were passioned charges within and without. I need a little more security. I mean, sure she can come to my disoriented rescue, but before she was Queen, was she Doom?
And another entrant, she's the one I've coveted since day dawning. She remembers my name now, I hope, and has hopes that I'll stick to her original hope? Only time is the merchant of all.
Bring down truths upon
which we can judge the ruled,
Give them death from which to sup on,
Crushed under a Stone that's pulled by you, dear reader, tell the dream.
I suppose I should write about this big world. I should write of searing desire finally atrophying to dull taste. I should expound on how hearts have expanded, all deceit dropped away from the eyes of the darkest among the whole. I should relate how drenched fires and parched earth have all rent asunder the seasons from a crystal cycle that now has no place in the hall of the Now.
Some might wish me to write of meadow roads, or far-flung hearts, alight in the springtime, or fallen in the autumn. Others would hear a bloodletting tale, or one of high concept, with predictions for future events combined with the technology of the gods. Or maybe it's not the common piece they want, no, perhaps it is some insight as to how to look at the world, take it in and not be taken, to remember but not really, to categorize with but one category, one option, one, lump, sum.
Or how's this? One tale..simple in its form, based on filtered facts and constructed scenes. The actors are almost all one person, the rest are mere stick players, some might see them as hand puppets. The drama is not a drama, nor comedy, nor tragedy. It's merely a show, four dimensional in presentation (at least 4) and from beginning to end...nothing but shadows.
The last big two, another big break. There's little hope to get much accomplished, though this is the time to get it all done. I see a big stall ahead, where my enterprise must catch up with my situation. How much can I work after all is said and done. Better than some, best of none.
As the grey invaded the room, the turn from brightness accomplished by an encroaching Low. A scattered wall of heavy water was now stretched across a half-dozen states, and moving like a contemplative flea on the computer-produced graphic on the screen of the TV, which had been left on earlier in the day, and would continue on into the night.
When the drops began to splatter on the glass of the living room window, a tired hand stretched towards the lamp on the coffee table.
Hard days in a hopeless way,
Every dream spread out,
Questing, querrying, trying to say,
And bring about words to bring you to shout,
Have heart, hath heffer,
How to dream again the word the word the letter the space the misspelling and on.
Somewhere there's a wall. That's an explanation that merits little explanation, but Jesus, give me some evidence. I mean, other than my own, limited, POV. Sometimes, all of those times, it's so damn easy. Other times, most of them, it's like the difference never existed, that hope is under the influence of arbitrary matters: the mass of CH4 in the air, or the number of straws up your nose. Yeah, I joke about it, but I can't help but dream of a day when ease is the rule, and playfulness is the mode.
As time rushes past,
and dreams get lost,
first impressions last,
though, now they cost,
more than
before.
There was a time when I
thought of those I knew not. By
the way they were strewn,
passed along with many a moon,
But if I forget just one,
Then nothing makes sense.
If I forget them all, they've won,
a hall of inscrutiny to pitch their weird tents.
So be the winds of actors, tell them they stink, or they will never stop.
It was a sorry night, followed by a quickened haze of a day, amputated early of its morn, and descended faster than one would imagine. Then the night; then day; and so on, until the whole thing caught itself in a dull moment, gummed the workings, and tore the shaded fabric of those little lives like tufts from out a head of cotton candy.
The gossamer shards still clinging to the mother home.
Caught in a light unobscure,
Shadows roll about, unsure,
I see a path of black in front,
Or it may be nothing, an optic stunt,
So follow my footsteps a thing possibly not,
Until a strange noise, and my attention caught.
I freeze like a mouse, my heart rages on,
By the time it stopped, I'd been far gone.
Lift back, pull out, see the full scene,
Treasure all such life to be seen,
And don't toss it away, no matter where it's been.
some places I have faded, in others I might be brighter than I know. What world is this where one knows nothing of the truth; locked in a single perspective, a limited, the most limited, view of ourselves. Who am I, that no one can never fully know, no matter how I wish it, nor how much I run from the grade.
I feel as though the climbing hours,
Sheltered princesses in tall towers,
A general vision of confusion and scene,
Little amongst clutter unclean,
Bring about sorry chaste, and dream,
Telling all who wish and seem
To fly at words, or run from quiet,
All thoughts amok in soft riot.
As the turning of Earth brings tomorrow's red hope,
The sun signs its presence in a changing slope,
Once on the line, one hope did try,
As it passed to oblivion, no one would cry
"Foul."
Take the word for its meaning, not its flair.
Crumbling Crumbledeed
Something else lost today. One thing becomes as important as a breath while the other, once the towering trauma, falls back to the setting and has the import of dry leaf. What power could possibly be left in this thing? Undoubtably, it will arise again, blunt and abrupt, attempting to regain the clutch. At least it will leave the more pressing alone, to me.
As the glances rolled about the colorless gloom,
And shuffling feet covered all parameters of room,
A subtle alert to the pressing time,
Brought all to stillness, and posited rhyme.
A purpose, a thing, call it a name,
Invoke a word by which to tame,
The scene, get a lock on its source,
Change the look with a phrase perforce,
Meanings tossed, tossed, suddenly out,
Comes an ugly parlay, a shifty bout.
The end is a simple word,
And it's hard to understand how you could have
possibly not heard.
Can't deny it, here it is.
I find myself dreading the pages. My mind is on scribblings unimportant and barren of worth. Trite pieces of questionable substance that give no more meaning to this world than a thimble on the wind. Like the cranes before us, we too look to the shaded shore. But what awaits within gives us glance no more.
Blanket of soft, fine dreams,
Faded all yet for stitch and seams,
Covering all that shelter beneath,
Hears to whom my days bequeath,
That heartened stone, that bonnie ray,
Trickled from out the flower that lay,
aside the tracks far stretched and gone,
Tracing the thatched feet which upon
a savage doth walk, and shuffle with breadth,
Reminds one of soft fine dreams one might sheddth,
in all.
His heart way rayed outward in gold and tiny silver slivers, cascading off the jeweled hillside, scattering the birds, once alone in solace, now alight in glory. Behind the figure, far in the distance, a small hovel appears, dark but for one exposed window from which shined a light unchallenged, until this once wayward follower stepped to the head, and drove such visions before him, like
Got way fluked last nighgt. Keeping clear of spirits dear is a less cluttered way of ranging. Hoping for another score, we sit back admidst the roar, we're getting better. We're getting close.
Now I'm left only with traces of thought, the last, quitting embers of a tyrannically stoked fire. Now relax as passioned parlays entreat me to night. Tomorrow there will be things to do about what I didn't today.
An empty set of borrowed thoughts,
Kept inside a dull, thin box,
Unwrapped and worn through thorough use,
Unsealed by wax this torrid truce.
Written by hand with harlequin's hope,
And a slacking jaw of a deaf myope.
Clean and untouched hands brought it here,
To lay in my lap a prospect so sere,
And I dispatched the courier from my lands,
Whilst my friend relieved him of those hands.
What's to be seen in those fotos? I mean, what do we look for but things no longer true. That's not me, nor you, nor him nor her; it's us back then, people you'd be crazy to meet. They're all running around so happy together, standing still in those bright moments. There's no reason we can't acknowledge them; they're gone.
What can I say? It's Thursday. Mysterious, yet predictable caller, see. I can't help but understand what has happened. How funny can it get. I saw a circle today, what was it. Ah, yes, a year, the season brought on that fond memory. This led to another. It's the one I try to block, though by writing about it, how can I avoid thinking such things.
That's where truth of mind can be found: when you've caught yourself reading with other pressings going on. If the words suddenly turn to gibberish, you'd notice, but you're not really reading, taking it in. A layer.
Scratch, the old man, was writing a book,
his heltered young minions chose to take a small look,
With a tempest of fire the spine broke,
The pages displaced amidst tendrils of smoke.
Cracked in red glow ran a list of names,
Cardinal sins and Bishops' dark games,
And here across was a symbol of doom,
That shuddered in fear as he entered the room.
With a clasp of his hand he dismissed his lot,
And returned to his writing, with little a thought.
So, good day. Better night. Some things I can write, others are best laid aside for forgetting. Everything I thought I might be is as sure as dust alight, a shape coalesced with little thought and continuing betrayal to past form.
Open the quiet night onto a faded veranda. The frame closes in upon a shaded vase, and the call goes out for more. More moon, more sky, more of the good, the stuff of passions. Fade to a discarded rose and cut.
Tell the man behind the gate,
Tell him what I say to you,
Everything has come of late,
And listen carefully to what you must do:
As passersby turn from your gaze,
Don't allow the sum to amaze,
But don't let them past without a glance,
And hopefully you'll own a jeweled chance,
The key, an answer of sorts,
Will caress your hand while it extorts.
Plain and disheveled, he saw that life was a small parade, one in which the leaders followed the clean up.
The beginning of a strange time? It's possible that I may alter the whole schema, just turn it out onto the myriad paths that lay waiting. Or else I'll burn it all, realize that it was, in fact, nothing. Then I could start with nothing. But this time I would keep it nothing, never adding, just breathing.
Nothing has ever been greater than I'd imagined it.
Sober steps draw a path,
leaving fretting in their wake,
off to the familiar bastion of wrath,
his spiring thoughts for spiraling's sake.
Again the town is made,
'Tween hisself and the real,
When it did finally fade,
It ended as no big deal.
Open up the sorry drain,
And let it go, let it go.
There's no reason to hold on to anything as absurd as those things I see around me. In fact, there's nothing that would hint that it would be wrong to concentrate for the rest of time on watching it all break apart to reveal the facade it was. Little.
Time has become a rarefied commodity lately. Chances of getting far in el projecto grande are pretty hazy. Odd, reading about wartime atrocities lead me to think of her. My mind is really lacking in coherence lately. My body still despises me. It's afraid I'm going to cave in on my heavily-heaped assurances. Trust is a hard thing to come by. Even harder to re-establish. Envelopes, don't forget the envelopes.
Playing about with the wind's dark foes,
Asleep against the rocks, few notice as it grows,
The spire, the tower, black and faceless,
Giving spur to death dreams unyielding in chasteness.
As the sun climbs over the glassy sea,
And throws shadows against the heavy wall,
The sleepers are gone, and it seems it will be,
That none shall scale their prison, so tall.
Heaven help the human mind. Ignorant of everything that it cannot touch. Lo, here I feel the page, the pen, but my mind knows not of their surface or temperature, only that they are received for what they are to my flesh, not my self.
And who can I touch, if not with this skin? Any whom I can convince to listen. Words are not truly formed at the tongue, are they? They're back inside, look these aren't even spoken. Here is my mind for a mind to behold, scrawlings on a page, little more than nothing. But to some, these letters take greater shape, and I reside inside them.
