I hate these defiant pages
Creating nothing of worth
So emphatically needed
Now perhaps more than ever
Then when words were plentiful
I have found silence
The way water dilutes sound
More years have created
From artic volcanoes
And shifting plates
Cradling nameless dead
A balancing of sorts begins
In a month
Of extensive vocabularies flexed
And I I need to
Vote in, mobilize my forgotten resources into some form of action, structure building, construct the next great wonder that will be decided upon committeed and changed just before you get there so that you still have not found the wonder where it resides, hidden, prowling with murder kit in hand.
The shouts of rain drowning out the sound of strangle rope and hacksaw being applied to delicate
Stay awake for too long and you might hear them.
The sound of nothing
Balancing the dead on the arctic scale of time erases all words.
They become meaningless and silly.
Trite creations of insecure Neanderthals. Pawing at one another, trying to get something right.
Remove bone from cartilage in an attempt to free thought.
K-9 teeth knowing on truth bleached by the ever present. By what always reclaims what belongs. By what has no use for words except to communicate to those that do not listen.
Dogs are happy to perform their role without words.
Playing Don Quixote
While barking at windmills
Sancho should be more like Don.\
More like the scruffy, bright eyed tail wager.
Running wildly through fields of modern monsters,
Leaving a new kind of wheel rut
In the epilogue of the American West.
A new kind of fable.
Created: Jul 22, 2010Document Media