Wednesday, December 31, 2008

Chagrin Was His Method

A grumble of butter where a whimsical to-do. All allies resemble coast. Alligator bully go do do that voodoo. Better yet, breathe. That dress reminds me of a broken thumb, a family of drum manufacturers, a gum tree in summer. A dream of north, again. Do it nicely now like a milk cow might in October. Recorded suicide notes are all the rage, he said, as if that explained anything. Plans like clams end up in fritters. It rhymes so you can remember it or at least dance. I got to have a little tenderness or else medicine for breakfast. Half a dozen debutantes opted to study Gertrude Stein while two flights below them the hired band plunged into The Yellow Rose of Texas for the eighteenth time. Chagrin was his method. Relationship to situation as handshake is to gutter. Oh furious, oh specious kites, oh ambling groans of pain. The historical impact of print media always shut her up, especially when she was drunk. I'm not dead, I'm just zero. Try the caramelized onions with feta, the steak sautéed in vodka. Every snowflake makes me sing a prettily. Of the many yous, which was?

Tuesday, December 30, 2008

Sound Of River

A penultimate oval to which one's obligation is deeply felt. Opacity figures in as does the red of deity. Keep title for properly a fandango.

Nobody arrives, leaving sound of river. Crepuscular orange sentiment well trodden. The snow that hill was keeping in.

A roaring bull, a declamation. They walked regular in angles like stars. At hour when voices fade, drizzling down like old rain.

A lid, a bowl, a ladle, a trowel. A soil way of declaring proclaiming. Lizzie Borden's broken wax.

Harrowing the rows along a memory of elm. Swing's the thing. He wrote bearing in mind most of a favored wind.

Instrumental occidental. Keep your Jimmy Dean. The plane stoked low a redundant basket of globes.

Light found is one's hand a plus. Char blackened bulbous as a ridden grill would also.

Monday, December 29, 2008


At 2 a.m. the sentences were like unruly sheep, flocking this way and that through my barn, I mean brain. Competing with the old execution to fall asleep fantasy ain't easy. The naive nativity is never so nigh (as now).

Now what do you have to say? Unseasonal warmth has melted all the snow I might otherwise have had to shovel off, a simple enough fact that does prompt one to go looking for hidden meanings. "It rains so that people can swim."

"He died because that's how life is." Meanwhile, I'm watching teen dating epics and wondering how I've managed to go so long without reading Zukofsky. The back fence fell down in last night's wind, meaning I can't leave for the library until it's fixed, and there's a lesson in that, too.

Brain aneurysm vs. suicide, you decide because nobody's saying. We are friends because neither of us felt at home where we lived, and our paths kept crossing in fortuitous ways. January is the wrong month, can we make it summer, or otherwise improve on the sentence?

I've gotten too cozy with form here, and the twenty sentences themselves don't make the same demands of me, in which realizations I must now regrettably say there is - you guessed it - a lesson. I was happy in those days when all I did was file the paperwork of a lawyer who picked his nose in public. In the dream, I found your missing arrow, pulled it out of the earth, and was much celebrated thereafter, or am I projecting?

Have a burger on me, pal, and screw the calories! I haven't noticed growing old save for the ringing in my ears and a preponderance of nostril hairs. But I still do love the mail almost as much as I love a good pie.

I don't care for first person narrative either but you do what you have to, he wrote. I can feel you when you read, you know.

Sunday, December 28, 2008

All Face Was Solace

The last night we sleep together we allowed we did. Faded spots farted where I'd sleep in my you. In the we moved a hallway. A dream reenacted back and forth. We rolled summer in the down hill.

All face was solace. One was the wall in near panic. Near the telephone glancing a state of pinned. Left warped whose first fear was Satan. In the record album suns a New Englandly way.

Where in winter cold and still so we. The alarm clock's pink. Our cubbies more were boxes. An execution obsession with too much oxymoron. If that is not unhealthy, yes.

The barn an early site of intense posture reminiscent of defensive. Consider the many held with eye assumed. Were that like, it were. Any life can be weighed toward meaning. Sweet pumpkin in the guts.

Saturday, December 27, 2008

Glancing Reference

Ask whether upon marriage a certain extreme of weather will deliver you. He loves centaurs, writes stories about them in his sleep, so I'm buying him a half a horse for the holiday. Avoid the patently poetic, if you wouldn't mind.

The cardinal revisited the site of an old nest and fell briefly silent there. Memory vs. nostalgia, let the cage match begin! Well, for starters, I wrote a poem about cardinals.

It's been a long downhill slide/uphill slog, pick your favorite sledding metaphor. The dog escaped through a hole in the fence but went only as far as the neighbor's dung hill. Coffee stains on the work bench signify failure.

Are you ready for the fourth paragraph? Some men heft pens, others heft weapons, so let's avoid drawing any quick conclusions. The question mark is not an ox though it may be said to physically resemble one.

The sea, my friend, dreamed you up and that's how you came to be. What is the same for all of us? He wrote, believing it made a difference, but not knowing exactly how.

Pressed, they turned to the movies. A magnifying glass understood forever after as a weapon, a device of torture, which could, properly yielded, destroy the world. That was fourth grade, which more or less explains my subsequent boredom.

This line is for you, dear reader, may its icy contour illuminate the balance. She made a glancing reference to my shoulders twenty some odd years ago and the effect is unforgettable.

Friday, December 26, 2008

By Heart Barter Red

The mail coming back, what sounded like a somebody, A couple of beer cans reminded him of something but what. A double scotch with ice in a white plastic lawn chair.

A few robins cross low between pine trees, stopping to whistle from sagging fence posts. See the first nail of the moon creeping up the hills beyond her shoulder? In the almost-darkness he waited while she did.

Five years ago they shut down the crowd when everybody knew. Passing through on a Saturday, pretending afternoon. Her pickup was filled with crates of lettuce.

The same gray as lazy lemon, weathered and muscular. A drifting quality, dreaming on his feet. I know that one by heart.

Barter red deer tongue, flashy green butter oak. If somebody wants to steal, then all for market farming. A lawyer in Vermont got involved with divorce.

Montreal overnight took a last sad place. The drive you need to become the relationship hanging over your shoulder. Across the river, New Hampshire.

He opened his eyes in the darkness yes. He liked thinking of moonlight, the forest, newlyweds.

Thursday, December 25, 2008

The Idea Of Safe Places

White is the new blue. Gone are the lost rat's tears. While being here with you is the night song embodied.

Sliver of old fairgrounds on you and me both. Cast iron wedding plans heard hissing with grist. Or not or else or what.

Be patient, precise, literal, in a letter, or email, to whom. You and me sort of reluctantly out. Oh hell, just call 'em love poems and get on with it!

Turtle girl you crack a bit of smile and boom my crusty heart goes bang. The writer wrote she'd had it up to here with winter and beyond. Blustering consumers, rotten with coins, you're about to be bitten by a crow.

It's this poem, not the next one, that contains the all-important fox in the far field. Declare your intentions or prepare to meet your doom! Halberds, really, who can take them seriously?

The muddled heart leaps like a gazelle over thirteen years into all over again. Same old town, yeah, but now with you in it! What else but wisdom amidst all this useless longing?

Your heart is, was always, the idea of safe places. Years later, glad tidings, you glow to me so dearly.

Wednesday, December 24, 2008

Reading Green Building Moon

She urged in his last letter a different narrator. Though few developing will consider stories. So I think all into all one text document then.

End up last ends midsentence. There is now parts, a whole, an ending. Narrowed down pondering narrowing down.

So possibly nine! Some combining, some some absorbed twin. A little lost what pull.

Got around watching fall save his life. Pillow and blanket, raisins and almonds. Our old dog was also I in part.

Just reheat old myths verbatim. For a cult I'd once been part of I was fast becoming weather-beaten. Starved faux riffing off.

Was at that point castles on paper using volume. Reading green, building moon. Other dogs, other obligations, and yeah, other directions.

Charged with that inner Albany sanctum again. A lot of stairs, a lot of doors and then just yesterday this flying.

Tuesday, December 23, 2008

The Only Upshot

Rain beside grass, broken rabbits, and all morning the dog chasing robins through the wet leggy asparagus. The mountain difficult before light back gracefully. Apples bleed green fire seeking roots.

White circle above crows between that eggshell hour of day. Goose eyes, too. The hunger out back, that fading scree.

The pulpit was like dying off to a grim beyond. At dusk, a cell phone, a robin's egg sky. Remember what it feels like and you'll never be alone!

Rocking chairs on a back deck nobody sits on anymore. My daughter offers old friends the cities of the world. Besides love, sleeping with you that summer was the only upshot.

Halfway up the curves past the talus. Underfoot, nobody. A string in summer unimpressed with cult worship.

Loosestrife in rain off a river disappearing overhead. Ten thousand songs filling empty bottles, your brown tattered sweater. Where pieces everywhere wonder at noon can I say to hell with it and drink again hard?

For a long time there was only the idea of you. Over tea, your eyes were there with me, ignoring the weather.

Monday, December 22, 2008

The Country Of No Leaves

Driving north into the country of no leaves talking. Suddenly tobacco fields become familiar, the valley fills with light. Are we my father now but years ago?

Eviction leaves cold between holes up crying. "Play," the last dog whimpers. Because the nights won't pass without drinking.

November trees between New York and a funeral, stars bright wherever one gazes. In Vermont where it snows. Staying up to write while the dog follows me down into hell.

Plane smoke, carrots, a bone about another. Expect miracles and suddenly . . . Bits of turtle on the highway and all I do is talk or laugh.

Old songs remind us to pass judgment. Reproachful eyes beneath withered apple tree limbs will see, probably. Ask if we will ever become rich?

Boiled cauliflower for lunch. Bob Dylan while the dog sleeps. Coffee for the newly married has a bitter flavor.

So sit, watch, and sing along! Watch the miles between us evaporate like tears!

Sunday, December 21, 2008

That Final Calypso

My kind of telephone is blue and never rings. In that there's a country she never visits, let's go there as well. The only functions worth adverting to are those relating to the stomach.

That kid is always using a spatula to move ground water. When the snow begins the air thins to a fine silence like Q-tips falling off a counter. The rates of exchange merit no curse.

I am ancient, said the turtle, the blind room of its eyes signaling a willingness to depart. All grace is accidental, as I so often write, he wrote. Over and under, laughter and tears, the glue secures our twin roles as confidant and dispraiser.

The tariff rose with each session, making any kind of progress difficult. It was hard to see the pyramid, the wind was blowing so fiercely. Travelers heading to that specific north were advised to make use of scat.

Each of us has a role here. Of that final calypso I will say but little. Take that which is your due.

For what other reason can a donut be said to exist? The highway sign read Memphis and in that moment he realized at last that he was no longer at home. Modern is as modern does to most dwellers of the grim corporate city.

Whose voice is that lifted in praise songs? Who smelling of what height can sing a man home?

Saturday, December 20, 2008

The Essential Gambit Of The Sentence

Candles reassert themselves on an empty beach. Light that will mold itself into a guide or instrument. His search to occur at the site of his loneliness.

Scale now each new ladder ever deeper into purgatory. Lust is not diminished by the appearance of effort. His gift is willingness in the Presence.

Others, somewhere, share their plight. Without locks, I find all these keys abandoned in the dirt. Tricks when one does not need them!

The essential gambit of the sentence is to make stasis. Confident the sea is more broken. The great matter is left undone, always.

Circle open fields and return. He does not care for this sentence and so nearly excised it. The word "halter" makes him uncomfortable.

Loneliness is so big every word that follows is disquieting. Braids of sunlight ascend to the moon. Now he is watching it.

He is Observer, a role to which he is accustomed. Now many others arrive, wondering what to call me in the event of an event.

Friday, December 19, 2008

Return Mute

Flurries back juncos in sudden cold. Scales watch us all. What I am doing here, warm winds in January?

Muddy trails, moon smudge clouds. Give it a big name and it has a hoof print! Order, later, attendant.

Tulips push frost yet stubborn. Sun’s declension still tucked to gather. Old deaths must return mute witnesses.

Promises raised up a temple of sun and air. Rough as anger uneasily cutting bread. Falls, turns, begins with pencil.

Whoever might come after? Truly empty-handed remains. Swam in low salt water out of rocky coves.

You want to win a fight but who is your adversary? No easy answer throws the white screen. Trim curls unfolding in soft flowers.

Later you learned you lingered in the sea. The movie is nearly over and you don’t have any answers.

Thursday, December 18, 2008

You Were The Risk Gratefully Run

If one can't be too careful, then what can one be? Events rescheduled after one weather-related snowstorm are yet again canceled in the face of another. A voice may be the finest mode of recognition, given our longing for narrative.

A fiddle began its low solemn saw to indicate a change in the night's tenor. We woke, paced, began careful negotiations. Ease was not the objective so much as fresh eggs for boiling.

A new paragraph should not be taken as some new foray into meaning! You have to ask, always, did this really happen or is it just a photograph? A new absurdity, a new plot line for us all.

Yes, in fact, I was the subject of such generosity and no, I have not yet written letters of gratitude and thanks. For the sheep's wool grew dusty and dull as the hours lengthened and over the hills came the salty smell of the sea. So now you try a sentence.

I felt a crazed loss, drinking my morning coffee in the unaccustomed cold. Not Boston, but Albany, that warm donut of a city. In her hand, his felt like warm putty, yet he made her laugh and always had and that was not, in the welter the way it was, insignificant.

The offer was as so often renewed and again politely declined. Of course, memory and history are only sometimes the same. A dream not of wings but of opportunity embraced.

In the age just gone, you were the risk gratefully run. No other equals holds me in such thrall.

Wednesday, December 17, 2008

Emptiness Like Hunger

A direct path to potpourri. Quality is not the measure, plastic bags are the measure. By a camp lantern, they learned that they had dark souls and thus committed to writing.

Oh yes wait a minute Mrs. Postman. Long hours throwing bales onto the truck and not then needing any other life. What was coming was not trout in cool pools, not at all.

This phone call and that phone call and at all times an ache in the throat signifying what. Time passes is the least of it. Do numbers count?

They did it quickly, thorns in their feet, the voices of other hikers farther down the trail. It's true that geography locates you but only one way. A dream of whales, a river that won't drop and others, always others.

The dog looked at me patiently awaiting further orders. Semicolons are baroque, commas dither. What presented the universe in such awful - such apparently non-negotiable - terms?

He slashed his credit cards and waited for the snow to begin falling in earnest. As always, there are dreams. So you want to start a story with one of these, hey?

All morning I looked for you and at no point did you appear. My hands clasped the cold air and at once an emptiness like hunger took the lungs.

Tuesday, December 16, 2008

Albany Tatters

Naturally it was the crumbs left behind by Sleeping Beauty that ended up in the little orphan's dust bin. Wicked is fun to say and nobody really is anymore. The gas station of bad dreams.

More and more he cried. The air left their lungs and rose like a swarm of tiny balloons, higher and higher. What can't we consecrate?

From one rolling log to another, always whispering a prayer. It's a Waltons thing, you wouldn't understand. The tinny growl of generators up and down the cold street.

The colorful emblems of the new state. Wind up, wind down, wind all around. Fragments of a historical dress were much discussed at the Historical Society's annual dinner meeting.

I just don't understand you, he wrote. Yet every moment seemed ready to split open into reverie, insight. The dog crossed 112 to eat bird seed and shit in the neighbor's yard.

One lugging water buckets hums a familiar tune. Try this on for size. He held the same instrument, goosing it along.

Don't guess, do. Oh you in your Albany tatters.

Monday, December 15, 2008

Ached and Anyway

Pick a monarch, any monarch. Faulty trees begin to assemble and dictate to the clock. Oh what a wonderful wingspan you have!

Orchards bellow obtusely in the dark. A long one is better, everyone knows this. You want turtle for supper?

Beginnings often contain endings or can be so mistaken. They wrote together and came up with a more or less traditional narrative. The music box was broken and the same note played over and over.

It was like that in those days. A cat's cry, a last shear of light signifying grace. You can, if you want, read a different bible.

So it's questions you're pointing to. They rode a scooter on their vacation but when they fell, well it wasn't so much fun anymore. With me so far?

Broken airplane jitterbug blues. The truck sang as it sank into the snowbank. Like that only different.

He wrote to you. His throat ached and anyway.

Sunday, December 14, 2008

Pure Support

One has to resemble the vanes of a windmill. But the operation of not only. Flight only ever exhibited the mere.

Acquired from descent, the impetus. They were at rest, they were in motion. Their inutility in absence of the propelling fabric.

Think only of adapting. In a word, to a balloon, the idea. As regards the mode, practice interrupted surfaces.

In revolution were four in number. The whole project was a complete failure. It was juncture, excitement, in 1837.

To the interruption of surface in the independent. Public experiment afterward removed. Like his own was an ellipsoid.

It contained about which if pure. Support its first to deteriorate escape. The weight of the whole was leaving spare.

Beneath the center was a frame. In the annexed engraving, we are kindly permitted.

Saturday, December 13, 2008

Agitation of the Spirit

Agitation of the spirit confounds brilliant. The truth at length flashed upon me. I began to tour with abysses in my heart.

In one of the panels I found a sock. Upon arousing my side fell. My own voice had become rich and dense as with fog.

Overspread, disfigured. You think the oxen are okay and then this happens. A child's drawing in which the adults lean to one side.

The figure of fiends to my horror. She wrote he wrote and always the same. A wild sulfurous luster overcame them.

The dungeon was unbecoming someone whose campaign had been so high-minded. Keep your blunderbuss! A fine butternut squash infested with groundnuts.

To this one end I was finally committed. Any aspect of menace becomes manageable in the face of time. It was truly in my head.

He repeated the terms of the search many times. Thus and all.

Friday, December 12, 2008

You Exactly

First the plunge, then the adventure. He said, I want to win a bagel. Split, match, test.

Or else onto it lieu of. A leather welter breaking. She said, I've got two placentas in there.

Moonlight the day after an ice storm is lovely and magnificent but not proof of God. Pictures, not words, okay? I dreamed you put the kibosh on repeated use of first person.

A gem for Margaret, or tonsillitis. Never hesitate, only agitate. She wrote a long letter using Bossy's white milk.

The garbage floated upstream! One who plays whist is not necessarily a good companion for chess. No more edits!

He was reminded of a line from Oscar Wilde. An argument in favor of apostrophe's. What began over beer ends in a gunny sack.

But what you? Exactly.

Thursday, December 11, 2008

Gospel Honor

Before tea, the zafu. Working on our walk stands behind me. Just turn the forest trying to dance.

The dog wants his down off high places. So I have never stopped writing, so what? Those drunk not holy scratch for calcium.

A man told north shouldn't try. Called out thirteen and no answer. Gospel honor and disbelief at the window.

A purse of glowing stones. The sound alone over shunned religion. Lean shadow of an apprentice.

After a fight has quality otherwise settling everywhere. Anger is hungry at 4 a.m. Quiet village work that loneliness.

Why a broken fish? You struggle to get fall apart. Late January bone house.

Yesterday still going apples in clutter of history. All this way for a broken vernacular.

Wednesday, December 10, 2008

More Like Broken

Rain in late November on a pilgrim with whitening wings. Crows at the old maple over the wind. My life any burglar.

Wine getting old on the window. To be happy is like more broken. Masticated bittersweet.

What's the use of greater poverty? Dog eating skunk and spiritual promise. Abundance tears the sweetness out.

Tea humming songs of the trail. Arrowing south as a river inside him is older than the interstate. Believing in mercy and desire.

Thickened or rain-soaked gathers him. The rock enters into it. Beautiful pain in shifts.

Fragmentation comes slaying with coffee. Coming resembles a thousand like a city. A place for out in the idea of you.

The new cold above the song they know. Together within me broken.

Tuesday, December 9, 2008

The Way Sorrow Happens

I continue to love. Which is deceptively flat, which deception I love. Life seeping through, a profluence by wonder.

Because the bizarre surfacing Prozac blear. Who is dead to the world? Some refusal seems redemptive.

So a kind of me that demands probing. Remember back at powerlessness, being trapped? This hard hint unwilling to escape.

Narrator in peril, all she can do. Beat eggs and yet is it enough? Maybe still intimates risk, that huddle against the storm.

I am presently. All the people disconnected. Place hiding behind plastic.

Farewell concedes defeat of loss. The resultant injury follows a metaphor. Real danger will be real balance.

What's the relationship between them? I love the world the way sorrow happens.

Monday, December 8, 2008

Like Citrus, A Kiss

It was again all over the Albany plan which was followed only at the heart's insistence. Heard her singing an Albany song and that was it, I was veritably slain. Days later you wake up in tangled sheets alone, dreaming the Albany dream. Let's start the Albany engine and get the hell out of here.

Then, in the night, an Albany whisper arrived, as if the usual glass windows weren't sufficient. A nickel for each loud man who fought the Albany battle to its standstill. Of course I can keep it to myself, haven't you heard of the famous Albany secret? Together they hefted an Albany bottle and drank to their future.

Tucked in the Albany shelter was a fine setter but the landlord was vehement. Up and over the Albany crest and then the ash-ridden vista'd be the rest of your life. Am I getting it at least, at last, the Albany knack? She looked up and she was 42 and so she cursed the Albany time stealer.

My theory involves the Albany bang, lots of beer, and a proclivity for spending way too much time with your memories. The Albany letter will follow me to my grave no doubt. Darkened stage, faint light comes up on a bit of laurel wrapped around a barber pole, the audience gives a low murmur of appreciation, a hum really, and you step slow and silent before them to begin the Albany dance. 'Twas like citrus, a kiss with a bit of blood, the Albany sensation.

Trust me, crack the Albany joke and the only one's who'll laugh will be the ones who bought the farm years ago. Same day, different Albany story. A flap of skin dangled uselessly off his thumb as he fumbled for the Albany handle. Stuck like a glue horse in the familiar Albany wound.

Sunday, December 7, 2008

The General Point

All of the littlest words are my favorite. She spent the afternoon hemming wedding dresses for strangers, remembering her daughter who had died in a car crash years ago. Time does not wait but it often pauses, trickster that it is. A warm heart, a box of chocolates, a pot of stewed terrapin.

Running quickly to avoid the year's first snow storm to no avail. The fir tree quivered and a family of squirrels appeared to smile. The orange marker will appear dull gray to the color blind. A sigh of relief, a fountain of grief.

L.T. my wounded angel. I never saw the point of going "all night long." The message was long and convoluted in several languages but the general point was clear enough: nobody was welcome there anymore. Jelly doughnuts!

Organ notes rose into the air like blocks of cheese, heavy and pungent. Is it just me or does it sometimes seem like everyone's a Christian these days? Consider too the evolution of execution an essay on the human proclivity for kindness. A little boy passed the time by imagining each of his fingers was a dragon and having them fight one another on his lap.

This while the rest of the room hand-painted hand-crafted dominoes in silence. He wrote using words he'd never used before. Oh me oh my I gotta fly. Sirloin steeak marinated in catsup and soy sauce with onions puts me in the mind of leapfrogging social classes.

Saturday, December 6, 2008

Angry Hosannas

Bored Sophia of the card I sent out. A box of envelopes quite contained. For her from me already intent.

I'm burning to write today, really I am! For the first frustration. Words equal soil, compost, seeds, water.

But in my dream she says, You always begin with a metaphor. A wish is just another word for what. So let me write you then this note instead.

Jack Gilbert at the circus buying bread. A bent smile, a pert beard, a familiar voice. I never thought to say hello as that time earlier in the library.

Listen to what does a poet do? I felt flat trying to answer against all the faces watching. Uh, diamonds not zircons in a crowd?

Etc. Saturday from a thought shower, if you know what I mean. There is still this adult I long to be.

A fiction is the child I am yet. Getting angry hosannas when I don't write or be a person without it.

Friday, December 5, 2008

Breaching Hippocampus

There was a pounding surf, a pilot whale breaching. Hippocampus in its oblong box was most opaquely. Honor and courage are not just words but then neither are apple and yellow.

Keeping up with, then passing, at breakneck speed, the Joneses. Train sounds that resemble water in the ear. He wrote, at last, again, he wrote.

Beauty wasn't the point but my oh my. Can one ever be truly worthy of the Pileated Woodpecker? The smell of yeast a wet dog.

The fall was not nearly so bad as the aeronauts predicted. So it's a cataclysm you're after. A matter of unrelating albeit.

One holds certain cities in memory forever. Traffic moves slower in inclement weather, headlight straying on the far wall like crayons. Want to get a winter bearing then go?.

And. Does a death sentence concentrate the mind or force a dissembling? Birthday parties in the dark, after much consideration.

What do you want then, after all these years. When at last in the couplet I can say.

Thursday, December 4, 2008

Late Nothing

New month, new jeans. Anniversaries with Winter's son. She cries on the CDs.

Tired, teething, a little feverish. Even her tears looked peaked. Stops looks back.

Half, half. I know a new month yet. All the difficult days.

Coming slowly when I dislike it. Yesterday in what I do. Write being obsessed.

That bud fiction. Want money? Stay home, keep think.

The time I would have. Lately with Jake. This summer out with him.

Enjoying late. Nothing here.

Wednesday, December 3, 2008

Not Falling But Savored

An ascetic yet! Backwards thread, a mystical degree. Remember eating as a child?

Actual skin with cinnamon. Pleasure into play after I read. That remains a deliverance.

These days can't for prayer. Marriage a far embracing. Some faux going backwards.

Less simpler longer. I don't want to sustain meaning. Maybe glow inner peace.

Early stars, clouds, coffee. Fog and northern broken. I love dearly bright yellow.

She right now. Finished a supermarket hi. One set aside not falling but savored.

Differently intensely. New ground, ghost story.

Tuesday, December 2, 2008

Quiet Is Helpful

Events against terms of scheduling. I to be up and out. Everyone's quiet is helpful but not I.

As is a brief burst another burst lower. Says doing what more. What the next project, the real project is.

Meaning I'm sick of. Not very unfunny teaching. Anybody summarizing navel-gazing?

It's only twenty modeled on using words. Limited practicing playing guitar. Fiction a query finding opportunities.

Who can sell muffins. Well a brown. Visible logging trucks visible a mile.

The sky leaves red fuzz of yesterday out. Wet earth, car exhaust. You grow tired of life a certain way.

It requires to be isn't just a dream but more. You for the life of what universe.

Monday, December 1, 2008

The Next Impression

When you have your guard, it is not enough to know it, but to keep it so long as you are within reach or danger of your enemy. There is no way better to get the true observation of distance. For if you have been used to setting your feet abroad in your former practice, as most men do, then it will be hard for you to leave your old wont.

Meet with your enemy in the night.

When you break a thrust, you must but let fall the point of your dagger, but not your dagger arm. You may see your enemy plainly and clearly. I have known men of good skill deceived by trusting to the point, or dagger only for the defence of a blow.

You must step in with your left foot. By an active and nimble shift of the body by falling back with the right foot, and the danger being past to change hastily.

Presently pluck back your hand again.

In your practice make trial which does fit best withal. You have discretion to lie at watch discreetly. A reverse is to be made, when your enemy by gathering in upon you, causes you to fall back.

A man cannot be too ready, nor too sure in his guard.

You may fall into diverse hazards. Proffer or faine a thrust at the fairest part of your enemy's body which lies most unguarded.

I will make it plainer by and by, because I would have you understand it wisely. There is no certain defense in a close, then is a passage, for they are both very dangerous.

(As beforesaid.)

As every lesson on a fiddle has several kinds of Offence, and Defence, but here you shall find the Defence that belongs unto many of them, and the rest I left out of leisure to write them, but they shall follow in the next Impression.