I seem to suck at photography unless I'm alone and taking pictures of natural things. Virtually every shot I took in DC and New York came out horrible. (So I've omitted almost all of those.)

piktors )

so besides all that,
i seem to be digesting some pasty muck of panic,
and I feel like I've not been here before.

these bats are hollow, though, and passably shuttered to ceiling when words will them.

I had a dream that I had a rectangular-prism block of sorts in my pocket.
On each long side were written two lines of a poem.
I can't remember any of it, unfortunately, but it began by dipping one's emotions in a sort of marshy agitation and ended with an immensely cathartic, uplifting couplet.

it was actually similar to what a lot of prog rock epics do near their endings [reaching, after twenty-some minutes, some bit about the ocean or the sun or a seed growing or being home or being whole]--

example 1 [save as], example 2 [save as]

yeah, I don't know. ramble ramble.
with a ghosty-blanked chalkboard mind-

i walked with the lake,
and the flowers and the trees,
and the clouds I closed my eyes.

a plant jokingly held my hand.
he was a spiny, furrowed fellow.
i patted him gently and bid him well.

on the bridge was

I perched-- I watched a channel do its chores.
the water burbled cool and clean as soap,
washing its sands and scrubbing all the fishes.

the sun, I saw, was sleepy.
it blinked a cloudy lash a time or two,
and, gently closing, powdered me with dusk.

the sky drew up and sneezed.
a laughing couple ambled by, hands entwined, seeking shelter from the storm--
god bless you.

And I followed those two steps-
not too close, but also wet-
and waved the choppy lake a quick farewell.



September 2008

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