Sunday, April 25, 2010

stonehenge caves in for the seventeenth time:

stonehenge caves in for the seventeenth time:

shadows hold no grace periods over our lives. birds perch in reminiscence and we wonder why the housed baby bluegilled perch yells. i am sure of only one thing when i cry: that my eyes will dry out so i cannot snivel anymore. we are autonomous and bullwhipped. we quip quip quip. quotes are our only fallback like poptarts. i know a perfection of legs when i see one. and gaggles google treetypes to find a date. yoga could help. the stationary people and tattered walking prancing leaping people weep. i’ll warp the glass and stick frames around them so their eyes don’t strain so. wouldn’t you do the same. simple arithmetic. stones as hedges and rolling. ridicule in red; we wear the lipstick of our forefathers and their forerunners. i have a different take on camp. of course pants belong on legs that sweat and sweats belong on legs that cramp. the leaf had no cognition or recognition of her final demise; her last smell was that of a deepseatedly filthy foot. i have a certain infatuation for a bird who sits and sings. i have a certain infatuation for a person who sits and sings. we lay our filthy bodies in freshly mussed beds and let our minds mingle. the manner in which he gestures so freely and jubilantly together with the aggregate wrinkles upon his weathered face; these endear him to us. i’ll have you know that roof dwelling is our only wholesome pastime. we draw the curtain to the side; lift the window pane, and clamber out. we are graceful creatures; yes. there we stand, there we sit on the edge, we swing our legs over in our heads. i leaned over but not so far. a light in a nearby window flickers on then off again. they’ve spotted us; they’ve pegged us for who we are: roof creatures. a helicopter colours the horizon red; we know they’re headed home to bed, any reasonable sane people would. we see a famous palace and take the tube. fine dining every night on beans and bread. life is a lovable creature at times.
______________________________
author: faith mingus
clamber pander slander; we walk the tightrope of relegation and abbreviation.
we are the very same crumble of brambles and barnacles as that goose who flew loose.
born in the mitten; raised in the same and indiana; currently sojourning near chicago
while at an institution of higher learning where higher learning occurs with static, electric eel,
interim, off/on, off/on, ill-precision. pine(sol)ing for the oceanmountainpeople of the west
and the over/undertheseas. published in assorted figments of the admonition admiration imagination,
and various actualities: figments, unknown. actualities, upthestaircase, hobocampreview, and now,
dewonthekudzu.

No comments: