In this rain, these crests of trees flip with famished response. These trees, our own, set tone. Water rolls the streets to marshes, marshes are set. A word sets on every point of the travelogue, even as the grey clouds lift three inches, just to impress. Stevens, the greatest poet in corpulent times, dares to drink a martini. His children, thousands of them, settle in petals. Leafy daydreams sputter thru the window. There is an image left behind, one that dazzles with last humour. A backache becomes the essence of New Hampshire, and ripples of auroras castigate sameness as the discussion turns on a jet. What does language do when everyone is quiet? A dusting of rain thru the day and into morning a baroque event, no doubt, we would watch for more. A love of such and such, then people thru the years, then what course does our dance take? It is curious to remain standing while others take their seats. Their seats are prominent responses. Each step with the drum, intended, becomes a cooling refreshment of utter means. We are not captivated, only equipped. Subtle movements in the trees bespeak the squirrels and merrily, but the day is not over. A dream of something effective, a talk with the devil itself, a fire in one’s range of vision, all this prepares a base for the effort up the mountain. Yes, Everest in the distance, just as trashed and facing as ever. We loom inside, with extreme sense, and a poem by Stevens. His cooling stare is so professional and kind. Avalanches mean nothing compared to him.
Walking is not walking if Gertrude chooses not to walk. The premise: Gertrude Stein is not walking. She may be on a boat, not walking, crossing the wide ocean sea. Leaving inevitable France but not walking. Dramatic but not walking. Sentenced but not walking. There were days of walking but not this day. Reading or just looking but not walking.There were sentences full of walking but not walking. Talking maybe but not walking in or out. A time lived and walking was done then if not now. It was a doing and it was a done. Not forgetting Alice who may have had walking done or even doing. The annals say Leo Stein walked along, up to and including the degree of not walking, along. Those flower names walked along, Matisse, Picasso, Laurencin, in varieties. An adding war or two closed or opened anything jump. Apollinaire in the historical. Languages of shapes and sizes bounding for just the time and a little beyond. And that was the how sentence. In that time but also forward until readi...
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