When I was in power; holding donations. Proud of the line-up. Someone and his wife
ran all the way round the bathroom sink and down into the drain. A view of blue objects still
settled there.
*
Heidi lapped it up under the borders. I've outfitted her with a seat and rope. Paddled
an early ice- flow for a lark. Anselm and others were already at the lodge after meeting with organizers.
I'd taken a call for Keith asking where the Zen writings on swordfish might be and if
we had set up a press release.
The bay was still semi-coagulated but the season and weather said to be "bonny."
I wonder when we'll get our skiffs on the water again?
Past the mat a lively trifle went to mental depth; a dark shaft that allowed the
ore to sparkle as paragraphs. Sifting past those who loved noise was a one-time curtain-puller. Never
mind the source or limit. Executive rooster runs these streets.
*
A dark gavel's momentary recess–alloyed fantasy trip-switch prongs on bastions rife
with trilobites. Don't be, sad notion, so sky-sized; it's all the shades you fell in after
blushing. Small entries with large caveats. Time will lead, sound follow; along the way, books.
*
Going too fast down a mountain road–patches of snow–can't brake hard because of skidding. A long line of other car lights coming up. Doing OK staying on my side until I catch
the sloping right shoulder and sail off high into the air. The car reaches the top of its trajectory
and then begins to fall straight down. I stand free as it drops into a deep cavern at the
top of a hill. Looking down into it, no sign of my car.
*
Lowering through the rock shaft with Georgia and Layla, strumming the guitar before
getting back in the car, sleek black tail of Abert's squirrel disappears over the dirt graded
at the shoulder. Miss Chickadee whistles; "Nice going, Jerk,"implied. Can't give up now whatever the depressants.
*
Something heavy. A gold smile. Rolling away. Two good teeth remaining. Fanaticism
and its contents. You order a green peppermint with a little Akua. Last shot: Heidi's bouncing
rump hightailing up Nicholl Street.
II.
Implementation and oversight neglected. George needs her porridge. Tigger the sentinel
all night. Dogs on the perimeter, no marauders. Light and sun all the way now. "Daylight
in the swamp!"
Plans coming together. Outlook: simple direction. Speech: no explanation. Guns turned
away from the playing field inside its deep embankments.
*
Was there or was there not a board room and why do my hands now smell of its stain?
*
In the margin below saturation a probe contacts bliss depth sediment. This declivity
includes a temporary pass to Butterfly Park. Air sitting up in song. Reversed cantilever, Polish
parapets, gathering strength from the world's foundation. Apparently no cause for clamor, recall
notices absorbed. Blank foolscap. Stuck in many places above and below. Science sunk in circumstance.
Not to pop up in time means no new intrigues–the tail has slipped through the door.
Soon to be inside the tub with a tube from the hopper that sorts and tags ears.
*
A range of melancholy instrumentation arrayed to give the feeler the pretense of longing
sadness. Scratching and aping desperation. Scraping phony statistics off an I-beam. Braces
of doves play and splay. A corner is left provocatively unglued; he could have easily tucked it
in. A broke-up party was all that was left to reclaim wraps and feel the bruises. Those signs actually
did arise and some experienced gentleness when falling asleep.
*
What next? Reeling up an old fishing boat on a line and pole, mottled as the roof
of the Superdome. What is our response to entropy? Sadness. What is the meaning of happiness?
A line and a pole. Uncontrollable winds; inhospitable windows.
*
No trace. No tracks. Someone's name inscribed briefly. The wish to leave a record.
Two lives? What part of this life lives in my heart? What quality the sadness for caribou these
thirty thousand years? Days are numbered. I too want an indomitably cheerful disposition.
*
In multiple symbols come mental hard times. Now the glorious day, birds hopping on
the pine- tops and the orchestra silent in red velvet cases. My heart thrills again to the
silence which wide awake was never lost but now flourishes in rays and color. What is to be gained beyond
notice. Occluded or unfolded in naked view who can hear crying must allow a dish. Chickadee
again, this time in firs.
*
Present occupation determined by ten-year old flower delivery. Some group like a pattern
of hogs, coming from work to the games. A back log, a nose jam. Get out there and sort
it.
*
Swimming up from depths unholy things–could they be answers? Otherwise completion
of our data analysis will have to wait for a new cure via donors.
And waking up, involves? The drum in which putrid water turns. Come to life; open
eyes and nostrils. The churning sediment. No partner's ability to work the crane offers a
more basic fallacy: I can't hear you.
*
Rarely a thread let alone a skein back into the cave. Minimum light for phantasms.
How can one take care of everything? Bring the dark unruffled, smooth as caramel. A school with
strange thin animals roaming its yard and a butte of sand looming just across the street. The
children, interested and kind, scooter on a floor below the rails.
*
Master plot dog-eared beside its dreamer. Do not think these boys and girls are free
for one minute, tops. The truth is it takes one to know one. We are all frustrated with others
for exhibiting what we grow ourselves. Pass the dictionary down by the jet-skis. Approach
the witness stand now with perfumed confidence. These dreams we will not wake from.
*
There were dreams but I could not wake them. A preposterous filter clogged with stuff.
What other atmosphere is available? What is left after what is taken in? Strange dollars?
I scratch my empty case and feel it moving in my hand. On course the mind is beautiful things;
the road is a bumpy vehicle.
