Love agonizes over a throw. The into the dark pitch of sounding from off of a far wall. Reverb and chorus. Later days in the sanctimony of the even and its prop. How intellectual could be a keeper of shadows when the sun shines from on high right down into the middle of the street.
God Bless it I say the driving feat of proud footin’s mucho gusto. The reverence for the tide rolls up on the avenue. While the boulevard is a closer draw to make for headwaters of an amble and a saunter and those at mission for the night’s perpetuation of a memory and involvement in a sojourns’ rest.
Ya think? The emotional value given to abiding in the redemption school. To see the vehicle moving forth at a hounds foot pace. Having been given a taste for the bag and sent out baying. Trying to keep a good attitude in the dilly dally tide of darkness. Where outcry is going South through the country. Looking at its cross streets both up and down for vague salvage of a more personable commitment in the saving of face.
Let us not implement our own destruction. Let us look at that 60mph and 80 yards and twenty foot tall brick wall without having to seek a thrill. Let us stop on that dime and drop it. Real good and hardy. With wine bottles answering knowing corkscrews.
If the overwhelming feature of the bullies on the base say it is all too ephemeral to have a wonder about it to go by. Then let it dawn sweetly and looking back consider the rhythm of pacing. This and leigh out modicems of modesty in taking it up a clip. To let out the great force of breath we have only to exhale and let it go with a ‘shweho’. That is the one in her dance. Skrying madly to the beat of 10 dead bass drums.
Without regret never have want of answering the question again. Move on with your bad self and your selfsame looking gate and your mindful choo choo. I think I can, I think I can wwwoooOOOoooeee. D
Does it help anybody to truly be alone. Is this the long dread fate of our humanity. Even here in our Summer home. Wheat for sages. A single grain’s speculation. Left to entrain the repetitions of manevours given over to sexual prowess. Given a crush that rhymes with sport. Laid out for rest like bedcloths. Carrying the pocket stuff tryptyches of our son the train conductor.
Simply to mention the great tunnel of love coming up for today’s amusement park ride. All for the condition of make believe. A national obliging of the blind consuming marriage of nihilism with reality. I think it somehow vouchsafes the sweat for the racing fears of the tourilous American.
A lambaste of upstarts. The frequent of turning pages making due with storied wedlock. Into the garden of a realized set of fears grown over with weed and wildflower.
The womaning of grange and rucksack buck. The payback for great temperament. Tides of escapade having simply learned that the old gray goose is a good bet. One of the quickier, quackier ways for children to run a circle and make it their own.
For release, for concord, for fantastic requital of past kingdoms and loose tabs on the dreaming of catchers tales. Them still resolved to remain smitten with the bull, the bear, and the blue jean.
Hardy, har, har, the end went unforseen but the Sun continued to rise and the rain fell from the plaint. Flippy wiggy foments of geste flew the coop and Troubadors said good ride. Blessed rest of Wintertimes in happenstance. Glad in a sack and dreaming to the last of better times ahead. Faith thus making it through night after night until Spring.
Personal Writings 