Sunday, December 14, 2008

am i ably

There is no need of mentioning names. There is no reason why why why why why why A family might be a prize. The cause of conversation is this seated on the orange bee on pink clover and a white butterfly between paper and birds. And hours.

This is the type of landscape which She saw and no more. There can be in the way of making a distance be deadly night shade and mistake. A genius says that when he is not successful he is in this way introduced to left left left right left. Never shall he be alone to be alone to be alone to picture. And he had. It had happened on that trip or by accidently witnessing rain. All gold is put into water and all water is put into translation and all translation is resisting days.

When this you see remember me. She said stay the second day in memory of the third day moving and also giving blue to green and thought of red blue and pretty lights. And so remove trees not in the sense of becoming but of displacing not only rivers but water lakes and when you see this remember this remember when this you see remember that it was at most at best at best.

One two three four five six seven eight nine ten one is here here and there on the fourth and twice. Twice is once. To wish to remember that every year is a change.

And rejoice.

Friday, December 12, 2008

also the sun also

We watched the beginning of the evening of the last night of hell on earth. We lay with our heads in the shade and looked on and on after every one else's eyes in the world never seem to be working. I was very angry. Somehow they always make me be in love. Nothing happens to me. I walked alone all one night and the houses looked sharply white. I could picture it. I have a rotten habit of picturing the long line of his neck in the bright light of the flares.

"I got hurt in the war," I said. "Everybody's sick. I'm sick too."

He put his hand on my shoulder again embarrassedly. "Kiss me just once before we get there."

We were sitting now like two strangers. On the right were there photographs. The photographs were dedicated to a very special secret between the two of us; But they did not mean anything.

Monday, December 1, 2008

the night is tender

The Night is Tender

I slant forward lighting cigarettes, then diving down afterward out of the blue toward other weather; the lush midsummer moment outside of dawn and into the pillows, to keep the light from our eyes. Some shadows swayed with the motion of the pines outside. Two bumble-bees. The sky was low at night, full of the presence of a platform, with spring twilight gilding the rails and the glass in between being centripetal and centrifugal. She felt his footprints as she crossed the garden; and now the rain that touched his cheek.

The lakes are sunk in brown clay and the boat is made to carry my form forward into the blues creases of a belly. The photographer gave us the picture of me, I am motionless against the sky and only remember the sun-torn flesh of his shoulder; the best thing that could have happened.

featureless sky time was already over.