Post by mfwilkie on Jun 11, 2009 3:12:06 GMT -5
This is not a connection
to a set of purchased ears
inhabited by echoed echoes
still wet under the nose, flushed
with amoeba that speak across borders.
It is rather a blinding,
an overload of branch and blade,
of thrown-stone, of leafed-out imaginings
welded to the infancy of green.
It is privilege and privacy.
Shapes, and a single shape
now a portrait of anticipated texture,
a painting of pure chance, of fragile permanance,
a shingle of memory science and other
writers are not allowed to touch.
Not Camelot, but a silence filled with curiosity.
Is perspective in angles of heat.
Is like drawing da Vinci upside down.
It will become a sign for Pecans, Walnuts
and Wine somewhere down the road.
Original Draft
This is not Camelot,
or the back lot of a film noire;
it is not a narrative—slash to correct—
a piece of prose turned poem
of impractical pauses placed to please,
nor is it a connection to a set of ears
inhabited by echoed echoes,
still wet under the nose, flushed
with amoeba that speak across borders.
It is rather, a blinding,
an overload of branch and blade,
of thrown-stone, of leafed-out imaginings
welded to the infancy of green.
This trip is privilege and privacy.
Shapes, and a single shape
now a portrait of anticipated texture,
a painting of pure chance, a permanance,
a shingle of memory science and other
writers are not allowed to touch.
It is silence filled with curious questions.
Is perspective at home in angels of heat.
Is like drawing da Vinci upside down.
It will become Pecans, Walnuts and Wine
somewhere down the road.
to a set of purchased ears
inhabited by echoed echoes
still wet under the nose, flushed
with amoeba that speak across borders.
It is rather a blinding,
an overload of branch and blade,
of thrown-stone, of leafed-out imaginings
welded to the infancy of green.
It is privilege and privacy.
Shapes, and a single shape
now a portrait of anticipated texture,
a painting of pure chance, of fragile permanance,
a shingle of memory science and other
writers are not allowed to touch.
Not Camelot, but a silence filled with curiosity.
Is perspective in angles of heat.
Is like drawing da Vinci upside down.
It will become a sign for Pecans, Walnuts
and Wine somewhere down the road.
Original Draft
This is not Camelot,
or the back lot of a film noire;
it is not a narrative—slash to correct—
a piece of prose turned poem
of impractical pauses placed to please,
nor is it a connection to a set of ears
inhabited by echoed echoes,
still wet under the nose, flushed
with amoeba that speak across borders.
It is rather, a blinding,
an overload of branch and blade,
of thrown-stone, of leafed-out imaginings
welded to the infancy of green.
This trip is privilege and privacy.
Shapes, and a single shape
now a portrait of anticipated texture,
a painting of pure chance, a permanance,
a shingle of memory science and other
writers are not allowed to touch.
It is silence filled with curious questions.
Is perspective at home in angels of heat.
Is like drawing da Vinci upside down.
It will become Pecans, Walnuts and Wine
somewhere down the road.
