a feather rests on scales of ebony Anubis looms beyond malaise perfumes by gently fact that the time for deeds is past inspired by Egyptian lore.
turgid
swollen verses of the tediously bombast— the intarsia of agitprop, the germane rouse; which pretends at dignity yet without the telic substance of coherence are "pompous words walking aimlessly through the landscape in search of an idea." this was said of Warren Harding, a president who would not be known were not the effigy of …
immiscible
forced homogeneity would seem self evident evil the natural existence of these being caste; but emulsion birthed margarine distilled the photograph hinting necessity of not sameness but effort (adj): not capable of being dissolved within another substance
salience
despite the archipelago there was no waft of algae or surf. before the peer i saw wooden steps leading down along a path of flowers; 'ajisai,' i believe, hydrangeas bluer even than the ocean, whose impression sketched fireworks Elysian beauty, that sort of wondrous epiphany everlasting.
forests of Iroquois
afterwards there was a cast of sawdust the earth trembling quiet, and spirits of the forest winnow while the daguerreotype blackened— a voice of maudlin nostalgia rasps unintelligible; but still i listen. resting upon the tree stump (its name 'sui generis' was) i'm conscious that weeks gone by what i heard were likely Silverstein's homilies …
riposte
our time is on the clock room cast in dramatic shadow like pieces of renaissance oil and canvas we wattled ideas from unread books; through gluttonous rage— we burned the dustjacket of history and knowledge to examine the brittle research of the Orwellian dilettante . presupposed, of course, being within Overton's Window and once necessary …
doldrums (n.)
a strained melisma teetering within the mind the overture of a waking dream that arouses nothing. it's rhythmic, faint less than static a tumbleweed which strikes cliches and old whispers into numbing thought twf.
the road
In days of despair I remember the promise of rest on an eternal shore; so I put on my shoes and pluck dust from my tattered cloak. I go forward one last time once more, and again. twf.
mountains of Arafat
I've never read The Davinci Code though I understand its appeal; often, we like to imagine things are not as we've been told even as we prefer to understand them as we've always understood. But I must caution, of the pursuit of truth in lies of those things that have always been (quietly) understood not …
Mother Goose
A neat, quadratic canvas of emerald turf a littler off center, at autumn's eve lies no garden of silver bells gentle English sensibility; rather ancient oak trees, Spanish moss sagging all engineered into perfect, Machiavellian rows. Mary, Mary, quite contrary. written in Forsyth Park, 11 Sep, ~5:37pm.
The-Bleu-Bivouac 