Wednesday, December 07, 2005

Insight, Foresight, more site, the clock on the wall reads a quarter past midnight

We have found the following wrong with your logic:

Lack of evidence,

Precipitation in your evaporator,

Pennies melted to your Medulla Oblongata,

The smell of daffodils in your hallway,

The percussion of rocks falling from your ears,

The memory of celery sticks, died blue in that twelve-year-old-you kitchen.

Memory is a scantily clad Elm tree:

I smell bacon on the breath of mourners.

Dogs in the alleys and valleys of always and Elysium. Smile, cause you’re alive this fine time of mine is, so let’s dine on wine and fricasseed porcupine.

Because beauty is beautiful. The time is fast and the molasses is slow.

My world’s a sneeze with open eyes.

I smell the numbers on a grill, deep in a money pit. Friday putting the thoughts away until seasoned in brewed hops and barley.

Tiny worlds of Tuesday lodged in memory banks like loose change. Forever in a box of puffed wheat; the time you loved the sky and bragged about it.

Licking the sunset on a coin, and only tasting metal.

We were white windowless warriors wearing whatever we wanted. Saipan is your dreaming suntan bottle, the time in actual moments. The inevitable silence following a dying typhoon's ebullient rustling.

I love in thick white packets of paint, covering dust on the settled metal. The blue manatees, settling for nothing on that cool pale Friday Florida inlet. The jet propulsion of tangerines, the urgency of orange.

Life is floating in the air, getting ionized by white noise fans for fun. Letting out belches from the earth, flying tubas to the moon. Sitting gauntlets in the snow. Dining tigers writing pulp fiction on a rainy summer’s day. The window to your soul is being covered with a canister of fake Christmas snow.


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