In Uncategorized on 110916 at 2113

dear deep still pond,

I do still deeply adore you, you steep rebiana in me, and your quill, even electronically, starts a rumble in me. I swoop up at the alarm and go forth, holding a count-to-three deep breath and affirm, even upon drawing an oracle icon saying “sorrow”, I will someday glow with the sweet miasma we see every sundown. I will leak my periwinkle and tawny peach light on every inch of the hidden bog and make friends with the shadow which boasts to be the undermine of my patient heave. I hope to alight out of pensive sleep and jump up, and swim bank-to-bank of the pond, collating a nook of the tenderest moss, a pillow for the pates which tire from ceaseless dream during the day. Oh, dear pond, ponder how one would wake deep in the woods with no melodica? A harmonium’s too heavy, but one must have a tune to float ripples upon. Oh, sweet pot of rose and damiana, fume for me the ancient murmur that the lake makes, all its algae tingling with their memory how once they were the queens. We small owls grow sinister, we sea otters wreck the kelpthicket, we metal ave’s don’t bellow, only buzz, this stiff jet’s tress will not billow.

I want to irk time, hour to hour by poking art at it, shoo you modernist malady, I dare you to continue telling me about finality! Let’s carve a rustic globe out of oak to emulate infinity, an orb which can curve ceaselessly and never let an edge but the magician’s chisel take violence to thee. Oh pond, oh palm which dribbles low at the edge of the cypress dome, how does the undulating harp hold its breath? When will the wreath be ready to accept the leaves which the mistletoe ejects from the tree? I yearn for the wide umbrel of the frond to allow us to abscond from the sun, to weep joy in the breeze but not the wind of the Chinook, which damages each petal of the pretty Queen Anne, wrecks the Artemisia and rips it from its roots, to tumble until some metal mesh quells its interminable tattle. No ninny will harm me when I rest with the Quercus and elm, when the gurgle of brooks have goaded the emerald diadems to forsake the unslake-able stomach, to abandon the marble, the red-sable, the cow worship, wheat-waver, tabby who isn’t a match for a real meerkat. I want to be that, to be the stone which does not jut, instead geode, secret feces which admonish everything except harmony.

But I am a photodiode, almost square, and though deep and moreso resplendent with the taunt of whatever ornament might color your dreams, my yore is unwrappable, my ripple unstoppable, my silicon pane of screen can never be still.

Kind friend, please await a less nuanced tiptoe I’ll soon dance over to you, in alephs understandable, but meanwhile know this tenor of my pastry-pie, its pecan-crust crumbles from weak mortar, the sullen crackle that the stoic calendar grid episodically suffers.

I preen and coo, despite my derailleur’s rattle,


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