You know you are unique when you have tents in your slumber. The tide of experience rises into various words, some you aren't ready for. The courage of time rotates and you are young. Or old, words cannot tell. And you will be relieved to know, once, a fifth of cotton. Cotton was king when we read about it, but time is grey and whining. We have memories, after all. And what if a poem becomes rational, like the end of a sentence? You will learn to retrieve, but it may be too late.
Wednesday, July 24, 2013
In the leaves of vapid trees, a tower of fine empathy flows coolly, judging people as increments of words. All words score local access, fade into news, fall into topic. The wind arrives, known for Bruce Springsteen's perfect, loud, creamy distribution. We can be effort, and total, and after all, but oh who will supply the solo moment? Everybody danced and called it vernacular. What if someone said: “Ronnie van Zant will not die in a plane crash?” Vapid trees produce vapid leaves.
Tuesday, July 23, 2013
A river in terms of wet passing closeness. And other people like trumpets calling to elks. And the abridgment of sensible patterns falls in line with the crazy moonbeams of just what you were hoping. So.
The world has crazy festers of brink. Period. The clock imposes history.