Takes all kinds of dirt
to bury the dead
Takes all kinds of hurt
to witness with dread
Leave talking to the talkers
when the talking's been said
Like living with the notions
of dying in your head
In a dimly lit room one might see in shadows what they might imagine in grief With life and death the currency of doubt and a pallid witness to abandonment and belief
One day, while wandering on the winding road to metaphor, I spotted an anachronism hiding amongst broken sheen and mounds of red dirt with dead bare trees and I thought to myself that this could be it. I stopped my red metal wagon with hard rubber tires and picked up to assemble the makeshift easel lying partially buried in the ditch. Reaching into a bag of jewelry I produced a few gobs of color and the axle grease from my trusty if rusty carriage and mixed the medium until the mash was mixed and the memes were a ghost. I peered through the glare and prepared my dirty red canvas and I felt a tug at the strings sewn into my hands and began to brush and smear and elbow my way into a house of signs as I wondered which wonders to paint. That was a really long and ridiculous to describe day.
I just saw a beautiful bluebird, perched on the edge of the gutter, her plumage the colors of the early evening twilight sky. My Mother loved bluebirds and sunsets. I'm sure I heard her sing, and sigh.
I must confess, I was one of those "why?" kids Always with the questions, "why?" Drove my Mom to distraction What? Bryan with a "why?" Why, Bryan? You're asking me? Why me? i answer from experience "because" B cause "why?" Bryan with a "why?" "i" notwithstanding That's what
bad Jokes are like bad poetry the punch lines are often spiked
So sad little sinew That I knew you when you Fleshed your tone from dust Breathe the breath you must Bringing forth the force through rust Iron and red the will well within you
Location: Half inch above the K/T boundary Gender:
Posted:
Apr 8, 2022 - 9:41am
oldviolin wrote:
oculis prospiciens
Why? Why. He feels the time is right. He feels the fruit is ripe. He has his allies by default. He has his faulting lines. Distracting deflecting diffracting He has his faltered minds
He has his climate manifesto It's signed in iron and blood He has his soft boned adversaries mired in heaping mud. All is not forecast if nothing is ever square Derivative of focus set in fixed maculary stare Seeing is believing and belief? it isn't there not a polar symbol not a pallid prayer
Mastererery...or something
He has his climate manifesto It's signed in iron and blood He has his soft boned adversaries mired in heaping mud.
Why? Why. He feels the time is right. He feels the fruit is ripe. He has his allies by default. He has his faulting lines. Distracting deflecting diffracting He has his faltered minds
He has his climate manifesto It's signed in iron and blood He has his soft boned adversaries mired in heaping mud. All is not forecast if nothing is ever square Derivative of focus set in fixed maculary stare Seeing is believing and belief? it isn't there not a polar symbol not a pallid prayer
A man in his space, working with dead trees Bones of trees He speaks in terms of oak and poplar, cherry and black walnut, maple and pine Woody artful expressions like graceful and elegant, rich and forgiving, ease and relief ...grain Worn of hands and brow, the carpenter sculpted the shapes and shards of tree bones, lived long and darkened rings Of those he most loved, and refined their lines with the solemn fusions he carried in his heart...
