Sunday, November 6, 2011

Mighty Mouse Marooned After The Hesperus Has Wrecked

Hello my cordial darling. It was a has of many rains since the streets soaked away with us. None of me is stolen now. Opening, more likely as closed. Yes. About the birds too, and how summers fell to verbingly contest right’s popularity in wrong’s nouned contest results, and how now cape-less mice and their once pure-of-heart companions scamper and zigzag from crumb to crumb instead of taking flight, leaving to lose the night, footed out to ill situations, never about just whose who shirks this informal duty, yes, pearled too. There it was not heard of and said just differently the same. More about news is that here we have those cloudy times of drip without drop, those clearer-skyed miseries that pull the plush of one nearer from the far reaches of gathering storms. The us of you flashbulbs until it no longer lights my days, as weeping longs for its own demise, far and here, as you-- of the tidier sort-- know almost well. Cursed? Cerealed? Oh no. Brigaded upon doughnut-less seas. Not that showers do any of their own gardening. A mime’s swoop (hard to call it a phrase) portends other coats, or coasts, marbled or smeared. Am I thinking of honey congealing near a mug’s bottom, awaiting the steaming-hot poured lather of brandied water? Am I false of head? Hearts would tell less. I know. I am weak in these scales of socially acceptable failings (though my knees are true and steady). Don’t skin your happiness. Don’t depend on raisins. It is good grape time, in the city. Fields of copper. Cocktails for one. We are flowered and rivering. Tighten the hold we had on you, the me of it, the us who split town late. And yes, stay out of bed all night, short on kinder over-it-alls than those that held our nightmares for ransom in a pickle jar, or was it olives? I’m misty with peanuts. My scalp is oiled by snakes. Slack is the only cut that my will doesn’t desire. Far out done, if it were a was, a how, a grumbling backdoor parlor mood, if it were snoozed with buttoning up the best of being down-- worse though, if class could count itself. (Ha!) I am not jimmied to landfills (at the moment), and I regard strangered looms as sunk islands I once deserted from this here-to-there perspective. A little on the masculine side headed in a feminine direction, you shook it all out, and down we rose. (This, of course, is, and never was, of course, a holdup.) Welded will do. It will smooth you, and we take it, right as road maps. Crueler motes, I’ve never lost, gently stilling their own shushed hurt, dusted. Creatures? I’ve got my own just for a habit, for a something that does or does not-- starring a start’s numb hush, as it weren’t. Bowed to floor me with a sun-flecked address. Sure. Sure, that’s what the slickered suit & ties do, here without the windy to pull or tug around, skylined through paraded horizons. East becomes mowed. West is doom. North shrinks from the south. A moon’s ring’s gold is lashed to to-morrow’s masthead. The fog-bell’s distance is untolling. We are our own tidy, handheld regard. Land the o’er of music in a fill of me-first/you-never. Placard my sentiments to no ends, to no known now. And, and, and, and, yes, cart off without it tagging along. A circle wrought with too few many-wayed destinations. Also, there is an Absalom in my pea soup.