The burden sings and the river wakes. Drama swims with occasions of current and slow churning repasses. A lock and dam on the hollowed patho of an old Jerry log jam.
I can only imagine the tidal wash of pressing wind on the retainer of the suspended lake. A sense of the pyriotic seas gaining in scathering currents with each flounce of a cinch. Not that every cache on the back of a whale lucres these shores.
There is the anti up of adamantine innerspace. The quintessential barbecue of an eskimo spouting off his wisdom. Like he has been to Colorado and back. Went in the service of a funeral. Returned without so much as an ashen heap. No shittin’ .
The very brains of peas set out on skewers in a slow frozen state. Cuniframing a spasticated expieliation upon the mark and Dagger blade. A stile of comfiture broad in the systrum of clanging train bells let knowing what becomes us in the loose conflagration of our salty figures.
That must be the tale of it. The verbose and the contrite cross planed in arguments of unremitting nip and spit. A swarum offal egg them menial bees on. Let that our exemplar would take a leap and jump for it. Into the river unknowing of his place of reentry . Only that this might be the end. And certainty is gone from the crux of his hopeful carriage.
Personal Writings 