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Don't hear the conversation
since it's past bellowing and we won't back down, or yield to backbones so wise. We - they would be hard-pressed to scale and drink. (Hard to say). It's quite a din, disagreeing, not heated though you are above rice, pudding as it cools. It's of no consequence to me - but a root, trees beyond years, bark - see in context of course, as the syllabus proves correct. It was covered, but open as I sit, we understand nomenclature as defined by us - the sales hit the ceiling. Yet, the last have not spoken. As words are, they spill. Surely you see I was right - as she playing back the tape - digitally of course. I frame this as that I can't lose for passion, heat proves my case, as it glides - feathers touching. But speed makes the day, or at least the last of we, tarry on the winning side. © 2013 Larry Ingram
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It's guarded, my thoughts.
At least plural not a one that laughs. Shame it took so long - hours between the two, with boiling times two. We know a lively, cowering soul if we can only examine the logic of those lines. She talks plainly of much, and suffrage, to vote, to squabble. I on the back side, have none of those quibbles - at sound that is tense. That's heated, known for toe to toe slugs, smash into me and the others, gangs will follow, get my back. But for embracing the cunning few, I would engage in backstabbing. I took this and repeated the error of standing so close - she went and blasted the ammunition. And she was right to so plow the paragraph - so small on TV Yet, past your bed, as may happen, it's all we will cover with this blanket, before sleeping. © 2013 Larry Ingram Sure another pen.
Eraser, then last night. Browse for a Selectric clack. A machine whines, let go - but push harder next time. And again. A legitimate error. I drove on and applied white correction so to speak - you'll name her Sophie. Look, see the red. It's really, an allowance I give you for your head that rocks - generosity. And painters. That I can't really make out - you see. Closely, this pen is not mine. It's color, well, a check of black. Timing of this is, stamping alone, badly it hobbles back with head in tow. © 2013 Larry Ingram You dare to date this?
A fruit in the sand, blows away my memory of a book upon a table, finely woven for dinner - but we sort by mail. Again, yet dark somber it burns - sienna, the pony eats them and patiently but swallows, chomping. It's nervous. Fry it and you'll see what I mean about the color - it fades, running, water and more, diminished and scarey, winding vertigo. Make me another one, by colander. © 2013 Larry Ingram I took a moment to say,
well, goodbye. But truth is, it never happened, jut like that it was impossible to take a yard of linen, cotton to task, forming words. It's not like I haven't hung up the phone, closed any longing without seeing a voice - those people who sprint through their mind - video games they use - red splashed across the diamond of life. And play ball uses at least a few - take a trailer, a force that controls minutes - you wait for schedules, darkness from the corridor seats of clicking, time - No, it's almost over. © 2013 Larry Ingram It's lonely as the day
drifts toward orchids in the sky, but leaves shade - the mighty light bulbs of color dumped across it, as I wait we skirmish for a milder solstice. More leaves, branches decay in wonder. My scowl makes it complete, as though the night were furrowed with utility - girders, timbers and all wanting more of me to ponder. As I take a step - hollow, broad with no indentation as such, on the crowd, hardly speaking - a murmur to me of my shadow, it drapes across the chair. It's easy to sit in silence, a mockery to sound - I laugh while chatter erupts to force its will - the dynamo fades as the hawk flies off, spanning mountains. I fly to where? To repose, only you know that song. © 2013 Larry Ingram What time does she work?
Some said, later the day were, as melting snow, caps my drink - not here, but leaves fallen to rise this year. Customers hope to - see - for them its only a day - as the curbs - solid for sitting, she works. As though singing, smiles spread white cheer, the snow plays harmony as she weaves a thank you - rinse and pipes newly minted hair. © 2013 Larry Ingram |
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