there is no better time to be a writer
thanks, baby's hungry, Arthur Treacher is out of business, and the cow has a knowing fear in its eye, lighting has struck the kite, the aphorism book levels the table, while something gnaws beneath the sand.
police a state
sun glare You would
know
That
you could What you
said
Caveat: step forward
I would
not need
The evening
you packed To see the boy
disappear
The car and adjusted The rear<>view
mirror mirror mirror
And drove straight
Ahead toward the moon side of day
Your eyes forward
Avoiding the look
In my eye Asking
for plot and things
for lunch
that would not
cause
heartburn.
He read Supermarket (in of whereevah) California. And listened, further down(up) the page(screen) with no continued need to communicate. Cheaply the glossed monthlies arrived, and he wondered if he needed (caffeine-nicotine) to ponderously peruse (peaches, penumbras) or certain cicadas and crickets that would not diminish their quiet fight as great ribbons X'd the frosty sky.
There is opportunity in all of this.
Oh the list of loving it so. Shadows.
The pace picked up: two great horses with cloth snugged over eyes, off the pounding dirt leapt flashbulbs x hundreds rose petals
le petite bourgeoisie flowered towered hands in concrete discipline
7777
At a specific time and place, Lloyd's of London sponsored the human race. Cotton candy was served on white cones, a man was seen stuffing his mouth, his cheeks filled with mashed potatoes, others, in sunglasses, did pretty darn incredible hotly limbered backward spins (synchronised, wonderfully) all of the brass healthy.
I seriously enjoyed the most of it, mastering a vertical salute-wave-cool.
I called back the dogs of war, gave aphrodisiacs to the affectionate horde.
I left with just enough bus fare, cuffed black slacks, black vinyl jacket.
I thirsted for red, while you watched factories reflect hued colors, night.
I smelled popcorn, cologne, a blue-collared kid's nerves, Babylon tickets.
I published a series, Gin and Yoga; and thought about you gone forever.
I never lost that fear and planned not to worry of the one you do not see.
I actually burned the draft aside aluminum cans, a gentle pyre protest.
I have the same penchant spontaneous dance (a predilection) especially up-stairs.
I am not sure where that came from yet it tends to animate perceived dullness.
I enjoyed your telephone call when you spoke of mite-sized pills and nano cures.
I am perplexed that the sustained irony flashes back inopportuneness-ly, Leroy.
I am not bitter, I am not invisible, I am you. I denounce the lack of work. Water.
I do not get paid to type, speak, observe, drive forty-five minutes in glare, wrap.
I know it was an awful way to go and I saved your mirror glasses in case you appear.
I want you to know that I am taking notes deeply in the eleven, something you sense.
I really miss that night when Leonard Cohen said it is important to resist even if we don't.
I spent hours already this year just listening to K.D. Lang's Hallelujah. Barefooted, indeed.
I have taken work shoveling snow for the city, and should get appropriate non-skid footwear.
I miss you dearly, the way you spoke of the Ides of March, theatrically: your eyes smiling blue.
I do not believe that Dixon, Illinois even had seventy-seven people "in the day." I believe in you.
I want you to sit there and type as I stop enjoying the recollection of a particular sound, untrue.
I stand absolute and will take orange juice only in seventy-two hours, he lied, needs mumba, Ella.
I miss all of it! That wonderful short short how you fell through the briar surprising the bear.
I want to see that old black magic, and stand outside that suite of Miro's, autumn a thought.
I am nostalgic for that gap twix your teeth, it was late summer, kinda cool, dank, breezy maybe. Pretty day.
I want you to know that I heard you screaming, but you know, I cannot be two places, once upon.
Sirenita Lake
Just Thinking...
ThroughMyEyes
Ute Sonnenberg
Steven Bridenbaugh
Marilyn Sands
Salon.com
Comments
Damon E Walters
...like staring at a strobe-globe with a fly's paranoia
that didn't come off as planned (toward reflex, I got me some Stevie Nicks et al) and continue to have Google Chrome issues, (the dull pang of narcissism) though I must note that (depress CTRL and wheel, baby wheel) the print PRINT expands whaLA!
what in the heck are you doing up so *early* whatcha get a new truck and go to church?
EXIT sign, i.e. Tix3. Thanks for stopping by.
Still rather a wool-shirter up north here and I'm re-reading SF's 'Totem and Taboo', particularly of *animism*. Then in the elevator an elderly woman apparently escorting her mother, smiling lovely coat-rotund ladies of the raw winter's day, I had pressed '3' politely reaching forward and -- when they began to disembark -- I told them,
"Let me exit first and I'll hold the door". I'd my latte earlier and spoke inordinately fast (even for me). So I held the door in its slot even though its chrome weight was slow, safe. Then the daughter seemed confused. I realized she was softly speaking Spanglish; "Do you want two? We're on two." "Two, no," she said, her mother's cane already out the door. Again, finally, I'd the presence of mind to say, "Tres? Tres?" Graciously they thanked me smiling. I tried to help them and felt good.
Man,I really felt good. Yes yes yes epiphany-level synchronization.
All this time the oversong going, *How far is heaven?*
I walked some distance and ducked through an ill-plowed alley beneath net-less orange basketball hoops ten feet high, on toward the lake, its water Federal flannel blue, while across the way America's huge machines named Cat-Deere carved sharp lines of six-foot snow into perfect flat glistened cliffs, clearing the curbside, front end loaders with car-sized buckets tirelessly scooped glorious snow mouthfuls; sunshine like mellow-moist wonderment whispering, crystalline waters drop by drop, whispering its cold breath upon bold and stark late winter trees, the crisp high squirrel havens empty for the moment by now my eyes moist out there to the bright breeze, sidewalk melt puddles mirrored far off white clouds with the southwest wind through them like shy, hushed promises of a better day again tomorrow the oversong in my mind (an up beat version, loudly) *Guantanamera* onward onward I sing, toward a better day tomorrow. With sunlight.