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Seconds are measured in colors I know.
It's clearly visible, and it works when people, cars - grinding, pushing, hard, graceful. But molasses pours across flat, rock grade - black turns as we yield to other clever headlights - boggled and licensed to magically appear after work. Capitalize on them, you see - cleverly. Sprinting he goes, driving his steed hard past sagebrush. Pedestrian it is, taxing each metal and plastic in line. So nice to see you. But I never I knew you - and don't, as we stare in space, normally pleasant. Accelerate and nab that green, weeds grow companion to tires. Gasoline barters - smelly as it sits patiently burning holes in drivers. They dare to pour honey when water will do, for vacuums are filled with precise eddies. That light deserves to die. © 2013 Larry Ingram
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Drip, drips the day that
never comes, sinking still as it warns me with sounds, ghosts muffled with laughter in my head - at me. Try to complete this in a year, starting, sleeping soundly when morning comes, as fresh rain reminds of deadlines, haunting ghosts. It's clear outside, a cloudless reality that turn to falling snow measured by grey - it's a reality accumulated. But still choosing the best, while fearing sandcastles, built to monstrous moats, insurmountable waves. They take white, vacant napkin reservations here with hellish kitchen snarls as we count the clear days for courageous bright dining. © 2013 Larry Ingram The linebackers claim
they were from the north peninsula - or pole. Their secret. But muscular, they face prepared for a dazzling stream of white confetti - ticker tapes of bonded and aged holly fixed to posts, bricks, homes - see the street animated for fleet and frigid travelers. Directions are easy as this child waits for the boatload - willingly donating sleep for boxes and crates. But today the sun sleeps in shadow for flying in each direction - flakes twinkling - seriously dousing toes and fingers for snowballs. It's a good day for pine, not pining for green parades. They arrive with fallen leaves too heavy for darling eyes. Sleep while they sprint the planet. Easy for their flight in vehicles, carriages all named for transporting hearts - as dawn crawls toward urchins awake. Back to the North Pole they sail. © 2013 Larry Ingram None are too flashy as
to refuse this deep round, cautionary, but pleasing gauze. White like carpet going wall to wall - on my arm, your limb once red, now somber in grateful thrill. It's a coincidence that they were trained in light-flashing - a period here and there, but willing that it should stop, with pressure from staring, and blaring a siren at cars. If he bounces back we'll be ready with Type O, a needle, but again not saying the quick trip saved time, but me - or you? We'll dare meet again to see more plaster - cast in light. © 2013 Larry Ingram It was the trolley
that whizzed in my mind, uphill. But impossibly so - to stand our buffet - encompassing cartons of food, daring a spatula to embark on down the steep crevasse. Sitting down was a rice container, pools of water near the banks to defy fog racing with my neighbor, fellow traveler, who forces their tires to idle in darkness. I can make the mist sunny, hot, as it drenches tobacco white cartons, tan, beige cylinders - conduits really for this train - no screeching but obtuse angles that dare me to leap. I grazed these streets as a professional - streetwise this concrete was not hard to bargain with for a slice of happiness. Gone is the fog, personally rebuking this trifle of electric brakes. It is sunny. Yes. Happiness is enough for a street sign so gripping, my hand - so Olympic that a trial will defy gravity - to train for this would not be fair or lovely. It's free to trust brakes wielded by the pen - and silence. © 2013 Larry Ingram Columns see to the stratosphere.
Blind but baring us all with - a quick calculus. But an awful exercise, no, but brains of steel, when needed, as the package clearly states. It's the cosigner who matters in these cases. A conscience that cares only for fours, twos, ones in a row. Balk at the sun and light of the lonely the page that gives the same robotic answer. And how this tally of fools really rules - lying crisply against the wall, sometimes in aisles, never seeking fame or - a level heard by a morticians level of friendship. Amazed that it came from us, you, me - we are shocked that the horses stay in their own lanes. Its what pleases this corner - or worse a friendship with granite and steel - cold but stuck to you - or ruthless corrections will ensure. Suspended by a blizzard, he writes well to his credit, and numbers fall to earth without blame or fireworks. © 2013 Larry Ingram He stoops, again, as it
flies darkly there as new blood runs, red and bright though criminal it is thought to be when meandering through this life, games for drinking as we crow for its last breath, Hacking its way to reflect sublime wings, they take flight. Unknown who revels in this blood, but a beak picks again the newly torn body, it stoops at shingled bricks to mock inspectors with breaking news. Yes, inspect this lone cadaver as it shivers across white faces, staring there, longing for premonitions. Bloody, yet, but clean how it flies unseen, as black alcohol cleanses the soul. Who knows that it will but grimace on rainy nights, as feeding for its young, glancing off bricks - they tell not a soul, clean with new cold rain. Ligaments of wood turn their screws and print new events, stepping on crumpled paper. Crisp she walks, quickly to avoid, never hearing this black bird as it chats to the night, clotting her ears with time as it approaches happy in the night. Her last vision - the raven takes her to bare branches as it rests - incubating this murder. Oh, how it sings of approaching dawn as life ebbs, cawing at wood never holds no water or nourishment for beautiful eyes, hair - though adorned in black wings wearing the night. Nimble claws pick its food, longing to feed its young. Sinews yes, but walking ceases with bright moon, winds screeching through the night it sounds of music for the raven, it listens closely for life. But these scraps are plenty, for a terraced black wing. Of course these events speak to this lone women stopping while a black wing hovers, braking for life while it lasts. It sails on. But it saw you in flight, Baltimore calling me to testify that it would do no more harm than fellows enjoying the view - or a macabre breath - this body. Criticize if you must, but the morgue calls it does - now that its drank it last pint. Emotions run though they may. Would you kill it, this flight black it holds it beak so - dancing on it scatters another prayer for the dead. You come to see those gone, you will befriend this dead one - lying still where it is raw, undressed. Unharnessed it makes a canopy of graves and visits there. © 2013 Larry Ingram |
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