Monday, February 9, 2009
The Long Knives were a destiny faulted in the prime of continental consideration. Horizons include clouds that have invested the clustering seas and beyond. We were men and women once, in a land of ardent branches of trees and mighty squirrels gamboling to the edge of the Mississippi. Then we laid down the law. This law is a vision of expanse, promulgated for authority and package in the idea that someday, Republicans and Democrats will debate whether education is a part of living expense. Saturation lives in the exhaust zone, which is a march thru swamp. Swamp is passive, and people die that way. A person is a collection of accents that sound awfully foreign. A person is a claim dating from the time that they fell on the sidewalk, and waited in pain for the insolence of the relief vector, community styled embrace. Long Knives were excellent colonial expressions, knives of working and trust in organization. The freshets of that time stopped for winter, but barged ahead once spring signed release. This continent… murmured the viable, and the rest of the sentence fit the exclamation perfectly. George Rogers Clark, you see, was one adjutant in the wide pharmacy of being in the plan and seizure when countries intend on placement. Wells fill finely with exact water, which will include human growth principle, directly into the vestige parlour of the coming centuries. American rancor of adjustment insists on positive renown, to the degree that we live flush against the sagging margin of where we have not yet been. We called them Indians and us the People, tho People in the sense of particular human seems a straying pitch. Our land is not famous for everything, only for our birthplace. Concord was one land, signed for in usual wobble then sent sideways by a pressing forage. Yes, and trails painted a fall into the landed culture, bound augustly to that paint. Sweat lodge remains in the outer chamber, where Long Knives show European industry in simple weaponry and plan of adventure. Adventure ended with John Wesley Powell, who was doused with real water on the way down, "treating of matter, motion, and consciousness as related to the external universe or the field of fact,"
Lucky to evaporate in the cushioning sun. even in this historic wind, that changes the weather in a moment. seeds called snowflakes have blown across catastrophic miles, to bring an impulse we know as what our winter is. it is like this, I say to my wife, who is newish to these parts. winter is this place, I share with her. she’s seen winters of deeper snow and harder cold, but I share the special numbers and degrees of this birthplace, which I recognize as close to me. the sun is a hard case sometimes. my wife and I have seen weather in many guises already in our counted months together. this is the deliberation of what we learn, in tired trials (sometimes) and lightly spent evenings. we will have a glass of wine, temperate and without pace, or sometimes during the day, a cup of lasting coffee. we kiss in public, because weather is just and complete: it resides everywhere. and besides that fulcrum I must add the conviction that there is no public. I mean, sometimes I am nervous and noticing, but instead and in chorus, mostly, the public is just an idea to trail, if one wants. one shouldn’t want, I imagine. I imagine, instead, that all weather joins us to the day. the coming hard grey clouds will be one faction, and we’ll share it. my wife sleeps and misses the glimpse of pink that painted the early clouds. in degrees that brief massage will be gone, and the flecks of frozen water, crystallized for us, will tumble in a surface of reflection. the snow on the ground knows how to translate to the sky again without melting, a Biblical sort of immediacy. here we found ourselves guided by reward, or the sensitive distribution of our frail, loving ideas. my own coastal fears liquefy in a slow process but I know my wife is my day. the weather finds a hesitating channel of change, in our strange mild winter, and we will take this key and turn it. adjustments are natural. the clouds grow plump with tidings of snow. winter is with us, in a throbbing condition and detail, but we also change in several views, daily and fittingly. we’ll hold hands as the snow falls, and as evening melts into summer.