Sunday, April 28, 2013

Pond of Moonshine Whiskey

Delmore Schwartz arrived with his with and a smile. He mutters his teeth, they are his. At a frantic pace, we begin to seed the world. Starting with the blue sky, which Delmore Schwartz says is very blue. Children are natural enough, with cats looking on. A ferried green talking of earth reflects some seasons, forgetting other seasons immediately. As Elmore James, Delmore Schwartz posed many questions, sometimes with frogs chirping in trees. Who will dust his broom? Seeping from trees, elegants ripostes and leafy green spell the moment exactly. The tablature includes using rudiments of notes in a blue way. The trees await his fact-based writing. There should always be more.

Something Attached to Something Else

No word back. Anger supplies a tedious line, threaded thru a purposeful haze. Why fly? The birds have all instructed their wings. We live in words, not on them.

Confusions support theories based on urges and still. Each night expects a certain day. We pore thru pages, lifting words, and then documents, a way to assert. The bombs are simple steps, clutter for buildings.

Some people walk away. It grows a matter of love.

To establish the terms, we step a few paces, turn, and settle the word. It is a time of definite wording, like loss immaculate. We don't know everything, just the word for something. And the thing is, sometimes.