Morning Hangs Over 2015/04/05

This morning. Tending to things early. With the remnant. Of the night previous. In your down cantank. Rousing you surly.

Is it any call to agress. In moments few and jaded. Like a flown coop clawin’. Sacked and raided.

Mock agonist bely. The drawing light consumes. Now embarrassed in the guise. Of a temporary righteousness. The call to privation under such orders. Whelms against the figure.

And post tensing shyly decides upon it. Best kept silent when wanting. Only to lay a bit longer beside. The prospect and the urge to. Make one’s mindfulness alight. Upon sorrows quickly passed over. Why then could the music sound a cry. Drumming, summing, and stirring. The next chapbook and galley swag endevor.

Scotch Guard

Tax collectors and church heads. Excide men and the Deacon blue’s. Longbow and vegetables. Apple pie and Shepard wit. The sacred and the profane in the countryside, on the wood and forested plane.

With lights peeped the zip monkey makes his career out in following and fooling the market. Every Christy singer lost to the auld countryside of the Lakewood fu. Pucks regard for the odd council of pits. These knee-jerk recondition. And the flex in their crosstown speak.

Moments upon the gait of storms everywhere sewer drains say yeah buddy. Thanks for the recap upon the host of iterations. They always sue such glad campers in the field of culumny.

Where Tonal prices are expressed in the finial stamping ground of another bumper crop. Sacred and Scottia. The glam hostilary of a farrier and his psychophant. Finally getting his flying papers from the hail of the very dragons’ breadth

Going up the country. Heading out on a field day in the stockwoods up home. The great chase. Running a ground seeking Foxes and their bushy tails. Like the hounds of a toothpick brine plucked set of shy oat captains and their great debate over rejuvenation of the Earthly resource.

Some buddies of the great escape just say why bother. If you go down in traffic and the lamb has no want of your harassment well then let the broad take home her turkey. The shot is shot and the power has been laid into the off position.

Grenwald gris. Specious ariotis. The wattess table tops a simony stir for mental health chariots. Kudos to the fellow macks. Truck full of hair combs for long and lanky gray land mares. A swell into the down goose. Sage quack maurades. The story books a quick setti on the minutes and a most capacious matter of moments takes to the low hung door.

Desire is the boot that reserves his quest for the sanity trip and that is all. It is the salt of the earth really. Any old guiding hand would tell you that is a facade and it doesn’t belong to you or your Jesus burden at all.

The bounding glen of quintessant whitetail dear. With pleasure palace graces foundling and without need to repress. There is an overwhelming storming upon the gait. The redowned breakwater shakes off the respite and gales forth to the nary be idle lands down the quiry shells and the smote fecisious.

Sending river pathways through weir up drafts and current swales and rolls. There is a diaspon leaving from the station. Sounding cleaves to the moon van sing. With tack and a charge it’s the left of the dial return to blighted traps.

Who stayed mad? Perhaps the unforgiven. Is there any honesty left to consensus values? Can’t break a neck for the law. Not in coming up short when the prayer of daily travels and travails is on the safe side of the road. Laud, laud. And Lord, Lord. And go.

New York Loud

Have you heard that band. The one in the city. New york. On the big island of Manhatten. A village priestess laid ’em on me last night. LOUD Mother Nature kind of musings. Meant to keep the good people in the happy hop town keen on kind and affiable shape. A prelude to the gatefold manifestation that is the rest of America.

Like a ‘How To’. Get out on the morning and do what your intentions say you are up to. No slippery backdoor. No J stride graveyard stints. Just the cross and the quarter. Amongst friends. Among acquaintances and love intetests.

Yeah big and balsy. Amped up on hop and fine food. Given to the glass shared of minute aspect diners. The anointed in the Cherries Jubilee. A Circus of August air breathers in the glad compromise of lovers and their features. The whosits and dunits. Born class of Ikabod.

Rucksack gin and boggled luck of the fuddyduster. There are passes through the mountains in the heights. Throwing down in the glazed sea of juxtaposition. With each cut against the blade of the tourniquet. Stop it. Staunch it. And rite the bones of the masses. The clear auspice. The penchant moli bird. A grots and barley charm.

Track by track. The pots must be allowed to occasionally top out. A squelching, squeeling, run of the riffs. Instrument after instrument join the figure of the band. The mounting loop and the pull from the nearby box of sand. Kind gardener making out Praise to the seasonal and the sustained.

Imagine just beating the tone out on the pots. For wine, rainwater, grains, the corn. Hot potted clay. What maybe can become? Down beneath the soil. Riverside. Slow settled dawn. Where the roses grow wild with the mystery. Secretly, much more quietly. Now not so loud. Ironic, oxymoronic, metaphorically speaking on it impartially and with similes for tidings.

Whose looks limit langour. What range of effects does the baying of the hounds camp for. What turn again ghost stands aback. By standard; gaiting, and gauging the steps, it takes to blow with the big speaks. Tweet, tweet. Flowing out ribund, and garroulus. You all seeking crowd easing sympathies with the sweaty ball. Summer dressed lax in cover.

Sounding off to the light of stars. Dewey break of dawn. Arrival of song with the color and the light. The comings and goings of the burden of daily labor. Throughout the field and the generations. Into the vert and the tree cover of timber. The square page. Abdegnation of rodents surprisingly giving good tell. The scritch scratch sticks of the call to pause. And in moments sure a final rising clarion call. Sounding, outlasting and tempered with care.

Creeper (The Sympathetic Vine)

Second par second. Minitum upon minitum. Approbation and cluttered frequencies. There are secret shady spaces and there are bright sunshine wakes. The tide is rising up and the moon is milling song. Mano y matate in a corn grind pone. Poetry of the muses on a midnight ride. Our cool chill subterfuge making out to surprises of a whole lot that is great.

It’s the creeping, crawling ivy and the spook is a haul. Far wight shores hanging lives on judgment with stories of veritable service of the apropos. An ode to Western returns in kinds of creole batches of something succored and sweet. The Morgan and chase. The wild hounds maurade of formative legions. Hounds of the mowing greens.

It amounts to as much when a woman is a wife. It sits by the accustomed elder cross-legged on the floor getting cut to dready counts. Up on the cork there is a pin-up gal strumming ukuleles to the tune of a resort into the backwater town. Country rambles ending up in grace at the popstand for corn cake and maternal pouch.

Euphoria and a triptych. Time slips away to b movies on the inside. The down low continuum of placid tambour. With the daily trials under the test winds keeping down the heat. Of cats, of races, of days.

The well turning in the ground looking up from a wild oats grasp on divinity and saying glad univer. This is a theory. This drive, it is augured by dreams. It assays the pan a cross with the dirges of the sympathetic vine.

There are those in prayer whom laud the fatal seraph. With its pronounced feats of atrophy. Willing the fly on the wall to do just that. Fly! A relegate of nations making out the next balm on burden beats.

Have they any other means to judge than the splittying of hide? This truly I do not know. For the bane of atrocities is that you don’t ride out with the consumers on an old blue laws Sunday blues song. You show some reserve. Well don’t you? I mean no matter how lazy one gets it still comes down to what is a stinking mess.

Conceivably all one would have to do would be to clean it up and be done with the charade of ill met and inconsistent fuss budgers whom are out there riding on a day like this. A day otherwise given to rest, and really if you could only remember, a day for returning to the earth with your labors, your inclinations, and your caring for the scene, and for the given environment.

What comes and goes need not go so quick. The vine has sympathy for you. Please show some of that hard earned resiprosperous action back to that same vine. It represents Mother Nature and if we need to be reminded of it then yes that girl and her creeper have a spooky good old way about them.

To shake up the heady locks. To tickle a bee. To go so far as to make the planets whirr. To razz the bronx betties with some of this American country’s best homegrown cheer. And don’t be afraid! At least not for long.

Sure go ahead and play out the trick but remember to have a few good laughs when you do. Show each other some of that same endowed kindness that hopefully once she showed to you. And God bless ya for at least trying don’t you know.

Before I Write

Before I write of second sight or about a sixth sense gained from painting a wooden fence.

I shall sing a song heavenward. It will be long but not absurd. It’s not wrong and yet it’s every word. Is virile and strong, hawklike a bird.

Be there time to concur hereabouts. On matters that are just and for now. If seldom without understanding this will leave you wondering how.

The lonesome cowboy at finding a broken childs’ toy would not just kick it into gear. No he would desire to better his situation. Ya dig, like knowing the real Pink and Floyd.

I used to cuss and really fuss in what I chose to write. Now I would that what I laid down was peaceful, and topical, and bright.

More of my second sight and early sixth sense. Climb a fence, meet a dog. Get mauled, for blood on a towel. Stitches on a jaw, a cheekbone, over my eye, and behind my ear. 47 to 63 stitches in all.

Should I write like a fight? Always running away until I fast. And come into your musing arms to last. To address what are grave derigors of anger and might.

It is there I go and curse with a mourning words thirst. It is not to grab up handfuls of Sun in the club and bring error to some flipped out edge. Going down for the worse.

She’s a girl and you are a boy. But do not let your acceptable love forever cloy. Those amorphous regions of loss and argument and a high helot for a roy.

When the belated want of our speaking tries us with garrots and gins as such our lot. Like tigers in the spotlight their logic has a goose to whisk us out of shape into some twisted helix got. The nether light burns bright at this conflux of our utter midnight.

Carolina sounds like ‘Oh Sweet Lord’ when the bird flies and gives rebirth to her lost chord.

Quick heartbeats connect lines of blood. Holes in the knees of my blue jeans and some mud. What will I have to do around the next corner when I catch up to my buds.

Discourses & Parlances

Talk about the rhetoric. The happy hunting grounds. The Stargate and the mountain’s song. Play up Swany river in the tremblings of an outbound gestalt. The theosophy of trillobytes.

Plagued field hockey consort. Team efforts to make it out to the fair show. Grand Gypsy eloquence at tapping in the goal. Here we are amongst the lipped and the laundarer. Make out good at reading scrolls of potent bone fodder.

The good old mission church treating chillies with brimstone. The image being supplanted by its fiery host. 60-400 ways of gauging the illimitable and the folk geste in its plurality of the remit in the casual extant.

With a guest book of the tripping high and mighty. The recondite demand for pompus license. The fate of the big, bad, Boston Creme. Sitting on the counter like a rematch fridge keeper for the Associated cops on their pedestrian beat.

Walking to the sound of image. We are all real good keepers but he is steel on the link iron asserted. We will to brave the clement of notions. We turn out to look through the daylight heats at the supposed rabbit tales. Them whose lines mix up mastications of the pouty coyote bitch and her new collared brood of babes..

Its a spinning take on the raptures of the well cultured. Its a grasping at the scratch of molecules. The permagrin slide of matters own horn. Amounting to as much. The general opinion that surveys the lay of the land. Spacious, airy cappadocious labors making out for the broad waters.

The semblance of flying opining choice with too much fodder. Telling the whammy ball to requit the dodge of aces. Give and get back. Like a silly putty gamut runner.

Having made out for the gangway and spilling down the beltway like rainbow man and his emissary, the brave cloudwalker. Trip it on down along with the ropes of a fiddle roger. Let be flying clout in the peacekeeping efforts. Also in the block and quizzing zingers for the ambergist and viand pouring wine.

Tumbling blocks of woo. The procrastinator’s will is to carry his bliss to the moon. Where chi anthems are no hour of exploit. No the weir of staying is vouched for apparent in the musings of the sobriquit of folly. The OMG realization that I should have started a long time ago.

Give A Fig, Define A Tree

Climbing. Ambling. Delightfully walking the bout around in my day. Talking and walking and exhorting great sympathy for the changless grange. Jeez! Someone get the old bear to go on and roll over. How romantic yes. But the glazy eyed sleepers are in an expressly dampened portion of the official roost. The dank drabbies have only more to accustom themselves with the caress of breezy time to know that a tight spot is remiss. That is to say there is no holdover in nights’ cahoots to run implored. The self knows. The day commits. And the nights do pass.

Scale and wages. Full on passion directed toward the thief! Come away from your spoils. There is no foul play that has needs be labeled cheat. The higher ups on the wagon into town. Going to get a barrel or two of the local snuff juice. Hope the rye is key to the holdings of the house. Born on the well side of the measure and containing the elemental and the anodyne.

A blazon making quick exchange with the sky. The players in assay with their weight. To bear it away and remove the stigma from the pie. No steal for the crickets provender or striding locusts to take from the honey pot. All welcome to partake by the course. Bound sellers in their market stalls. The great trading halls laying out tender for surety. Promises for security blankets. The leader of the pack backing down before the hallow heart.

Bees knees! Your burden is truck. Waltz right in and pluck that flower from the wall. And the next one! And them ones after that. A box of hats doesn’t strike you down from your mill. Leave them same sorrows of efforts to the greetings of salutations.

Pick up your gear and don’t lambaste the seasonal climes for their refrain. So thus in not furthering the extent of consumption by placating one’s footprint there. You have simples to live and let be.

Accept a little light into your hearts. To acknowledge is to recognize is to gain acquaintanceship with a level in the upstanding mind. If you are to don your cap and fly please just don’t buy Crow pie for the pandit to outfit. Please give to the reeves of your village something more sublime and yet still subtle. The hopes of a generous thane are in the compass of your faith in the new survival.

That can be respected and and let go of. Oh but for the repasse of flighty birdsong from the arid reach. Beach sand deserts. The just and virtuous. Sinclair and succinct. By measure of dose. A gone deal gone down. Those rites have passed. Et al fine and so gone.

Curmudgeon petitioning their man of God. Take the pulpit MAN! Free up this savage race and don’t commit your trespasses here again. The Gods in heaven have no time for your blindness or your maddening exalts either. The day to apprehend is the one you must wish to pass by.

That is the Seeker and the earth for its salt. What ocean’s remove would failsafe such an implausible breach of candor and decorum and those things strangely relying on the drunkard and his wine. California in the old days the passion play of quiet mountain running ships. Make for town and fuck yeah!

To blame the professor for a bit of bad luck is the fate of the Hempseed and the Buffalo. Dagger reaches for his loom and espies the crumby ropes. Mofo of the pentacle set. A manner of putting on your own suit. Still In the service of others but blind now and fooling. Beating that glad drum with the best of them. Bang, bang, hey wait a minute! Why do you want them gone. Did your ill spoken mete not head your Mystery out. Did you have the last laugh?

Taking advantage of death and all that. Goodbye snafu. Goes to show your weight replaces the gold with drose. It is a smidgen gone and you have to bitch. Woe unto the beholding lank of shifty sand dollar alibis. You knew it of the Lord. The mercy. You might as well accept it of a good woman. Don’t you think?

Eureka Discerns Eppiphany

Eureka! The matters and consequences. That must be pro-active in the way the cross is turned, in the way it is situated, in the way that it rides.

And ride it does. Like a loaded wallet on the backs of two shoulder to shoulder mules. And you are their skinner. Westernized or not you have a dream in the band. The good life comes on around here each morning at Sunrise. Where all harmonies are set in tune with the hustle bustle goings oncoming of day. 0nly the grave arya that is Earth lays beyond. Where is the very discernment of that contentment.

How shall we go about it. The general returning to the light. Upon the morning, in the air, and on the sea. Dark soiled Earth remains pitched in the the carrying sack of the traveling sage. To greet one or another persons, as a passerby or a remittent friend. With salud! And Hola! Bien. Y tu?

I am looking for a garden and it’s gate. I can hear the birds chirping within and I know the smell of it’s flowers like a familiar lady’s posie. But I cannot find the slip that is the gate. Do I need hop on one foot, shake out my arms over my head, get down on all fours and crawl? Possibly the gaits of the walking path will lead me down a road less traveled and in exploring the melee of divergent courses I will wind up in my own little garden. With it’s waterpots, and tin cups.

I tend to enjoy the great outdoors. I also enjoy the great white North. So some compromises have needed to be made. I have needs sit by the stove to warm my feet. I have want to burrow down beneath my stack of blankets in the overnight. I care to rise with the morning and put on my Winter duds and make good on another piece of the calends round.

It would prophet me a loose goose to try and put forth my better efforts today and stand firm in my offering of the ready helping hand. To give aid to those whom are living only a partial life. To stand by those who are not fulfilled in either the reckoning or acceptance of the choices that occasionally have to be made about one’s own fate.

Prayer!

An idea. And a good one. Yes a real gooden. No, I am good.

Prayer,,,

Thanks!

Cloud Clarity

A clarity of space. Some hilarity in the race. A gander at the stock of our neighbors. A daily listing to chores through many labors. To reeve forth the unguent. To reap broad stars of lusty pent. A divine conflagration of peoples. Over broad passes and many steeples. The makeshift predilection of towers. From loose shrifts, the humble bowers.

Cavalcading like streetfell hippies. A curry of fell dashes from a sky paints paths trippy. Het diagramatical lour embellishing sheens of the topical spheres. Tectonic arch craftsman at the gears. With thunderbolt and looming shrouds. The way they stack up they’re as alive as the clouds

K

Kilimanjaro, Killington, the big K. Food as stepping to the big time. Skunked out. Goes further. On a VW microbus in the 70th reign of an old codger. Tramps and homebodies make exchange out of turnovers’ throe and the gauntlet of an idle caste into cold lounging Thebian Democrats.

Reading up on the precipitous designs of some Wintertime haunts. Slave papers of the Federalist broadside. Truth be knowing, or rather the persuasive glam disreputers of the qualm surfieting backdoor of proper sensibilities. Peradventure amongst the conquest of lies. Those suicidal trappings of almost or not quite good enough. Maybe you had better. So don’t try that again.

If the length of day in a given season’s countenance were to get down to business. Were to propitiate in the realm of constancy. Gave up the number of lost sheep to the sorrows of the shepherdess. With her spirits in ascension and the night offset by the relative darkness of unconscious knowledge. A way of precluding the alms satiety of being prepared by the wellness of sleep.

A manner of exercising in the house of dreams. Finding those functional and elavating nuances of the word and its relative frames of reference. Resulting in the accents and conditional quality of those terms patios and divergent. An open door to the daybreaking ahead.

The Eastern primacy of having gleened proper rest from the depth of field accomplished in an eight hours long bedstay. Drawn through quarters fit for dream reveries and lowdown decisiveness of consistency. The morning dew and those dramatic urges of the spiritual cast into the hourly sands making their way through the glass of a welcome night’s keeping.

When the day remits the progression of a rising Sun to the congress of what is a lot like kicking up the dust to make hazy the gathern light. Between blue morning and rosy Sunset the mind does tend to its weal. The body also must have needs gain its impetus. Extending welcome to those things of worthy exercise and the accomplishment of works.

Emotions on the side of the heart that turn the tide of physical constitution and earned completeness of an otherwise foundling figure. Also, to make a day out for the good and fulfilled, there is the quest of spirit. Be it a blessing of the Angels for their God or a recouperation of over exertion in the field of bodily rigorous and doubty awareness.

And of what does this stem? This mindfulness of those things advantageous and fruitful. Contemporary in the continued state of peace. Willingness determined by regularity of gait and foment of thoughts upon the sharing of the family tide. A moral aside and the rest of passive entities in the later days rank and file comprehension of those things learned by craft and given to care and by lore of rote.

I will save my chiding of the unresponsive diaspora for its own sake. Let the post know that there are refutations upon the score of the leaden weighted waters. That there is a scism and a stigma between the feats of Mother Nature and those unnatural tendencies to try and make propitiate an unyielding religion.

To worship a God in heaven to me seems the best way to surrender my soul to the rising and falling tide of a practice made out of prayer. Moving forward afield and very far in the daily processional of time and its capacity to make out the liberal turns of its touch with human agency.

Within this church of the earthly matters. This proud Mother of the legions of Earth. She is many faces of beauty and familiar discernment is her vast memory of the way things once were and how best they might also be brought to fruitfulness once again. By the limn and deskry of her peace, her nature, her clear ides of the middle path.

That is no onus. I say the mark of a fool cannot too long go without the notice of its parentage. If they in their role remain faithless know that the condition is really much worse. It is not truly that they are alack. It is really rather that they are a quire full of many consuming beasts.

Out of my earshot and ready to stop the presses until they and their paper tigers, their paper and fire, is just as quick mete with its remove. The word, you sense, is an old and humbled matter of typical things. The reason for liberty in its experience, for exercise in its creative measures, and for conclusion in the leading tones of its more impractical discords.

It avails all, none the less, in the simplist way to stem from praise, from fear, from experience, and from the storying tendencies of repeating its understandable means. By occasion and lesson and to a considerum at bouts with speech in making acclaims outright unto statements of desire and want of beauty. The commiserate levity bound in an incorrigible manner of a culumny to wit. Baubles of that which betides in the carolous fallacies of too much to go by.

The futile judgements of prayer. The tried over and crass notion that what becomes is at best a state of the estranged and lucky. The beat and the dread. The devil and his folly. Mi thinks a ring like that is hands down shared by the many over the few. The parallel against the spoil of loath. A lord beknownst unto sound commitment of conscious, current, and glad triage of days. Port of call and beck of downs respite lacking dodge.

Within the realm of most folks the ‘raison de etre’ is a unique concept. It becomes clearer when one realizes, when one is coaxed, when one is taught the understanding that we have a good hand in our own fate. That we are not bent, that from birth on any progressively inclusive means of raising our spirits and our children and ourselves out of the primordial soup of time manifested and life encapsulated instancy.

A system of relating one to another or in a group setting a cast of players in the guise of costume preparing and acting out the nature and elavating the notions of a determined and estelliate sense of meanings. Through the agency of its players in the most capable manner of an acquired practice.

We are not alone in our cosmic interplay of good times and hard fate. We are simply being taxed by the efforts of those others whom will not just take care to take care of themselves and out of the business and livelihood of a regular and empassioned crewe of conceivably infinite beings.

Whether we are looking straight to our fore or we have compromised our situation. Must we be bid our remove at least? This unto the general condition of consensus values. That it can be ellucidated upon and we can believe in the ability to think for ourselves. Let us seek out confidantes and have the need for a mutually resciprosperous call to respect ourselves and others in an equal and well tempered conservation. Called for as our very same individual and personally attributive existences can go on and continue to prove to be true unto ourselves, our loved ones, our community and the nation.

World renown is best left to the ages. The tide of folklorico in the histrionics of a plaintive tadoo. Given to the muse and welcome unto the uprising of youth. Gerrymandering of the suit. A gilded splinter left haywire. Finding relief only in those same sands of time that the hourglass itself remains to continue to behold.