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I would be bored to tears if tears could sing of rocks
dancing, or girls singing songs that sweep life aside, to make the next book a silent repose, there on the couch they lie of real countenance, real efforts to drag the excited response of novel ending. It's sad to think of dialogue unsaid and reality that this one will not ever say, to remind the person to speak in a dialect that all can understand, a brogue that makes coffee for drink and brew that's too wealthy for salty eyes, ready for a good cry. Hardly ever do we see our kids in this state, in this way of dozing, slapping life from the jar, from cookies ready to be had instead of lunch, just white bread that we usually see, rarely toasted for fear of heavy eyes, heavy faces solidly behind the off white. Is it gray or simply another foggy day, fog that brings us closer to a remedy for sleep, taking turns at the night, a soldier stands at attention, the penalty for sleep being death by Lewis, Clark standing in approval though any of us could be a nightmare away. The squad is certainly one way to shock the senses awake and full of caffeine, standing at attention, backs up against the wall, to take a hint from the dark ages when people also did sleep, but highly unlikely to breed dissent from sleepy lullabies. © 2015 Larry Ingram
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Deserted deserts deserve better than to walk the night,
walk the daytime alone, without dessert to make the night chill heavier, the stomach full of berries, chocolate and such remedies for lightness of being. To try to make it from scratch is the last thing on the mind of people deserted for less than a from scratch recipe, the favorite of island dwellers left in state. Walking to make a better dessert, for cake, walking purposely takes all or nothing, the gaiety of life that can spell doom for the fallen cake, the fallen night, the skies so clear in sand, watching the sun fall, but fall so closely to sink, water, baking soda of all that harbor grief, to make a sense of it better than the next report that we watch. So it is that the finished product is worthy of reality, but none of us would leave a layered cake to itself, without garment or fork for choosing the next bite, leaving ice cream as an avenue that many would disregard, ignore to the peril of icing that breeds cover, covering deserts with unlikely moss, travails that match wits with a bunt cake. © 2015 Larry Ingram There lies the heart, tattered and torn with painterly
effect, drawn closely to attain by numbers or visioning a number of hurts, otherwise knowing how to apply a dressing, a dry desert of embers, ready for dusty places that reflect light in the distance. It doesn't make sense to leave the sound crew behind the camera, unless it requires such in such and such script for playing all kinds of numerical games, ready for top ranked players, A-list actors stand in black, closely guarding thoughts in dust. A tombstone perchance will see further childhood to know how to eat lots of bacon and eggs, staples of every house and home and weakness of heart, to trail behind the others, picked last so to release any thought, anxiety about scholarship. So you want to heal this malady, this tack on the windward, the southward that speaks of storms, a course not taken, but braved so that all acceptance can travel here and stay, whether a Jew or no, a gentile or never making the pilgrimage. 2015 Larry Ingram It's never too late to try to talk your way out of
this morass of hot sauce, habanero for the likes of misunderstood maladies, simply charging the world for remedies, anonymous but not nearly so as to waken the doctor, the white coat that coats really a fantasy of efforts that cross into realms of glory. Doesn't really seem glorious to suffer, tongue in cheek or just cheek or tongue, as it says for jokes about beef, cattle or even other animals meant for the stockyard, ones who don't pester pedestrian pharmacists, as though there were ordinary prescriptions for this malady, as suffering goes or pains me. In particular it is that the symptoms are catching - or not really something I can describe beyond aspirin that's easy to purchase in boxes, meant for giving meaning to the word love, I know as I would like to be known for my sauce, but never pain at dinner time, when good conversation floats but never wanders into emergency rooms. © 2015 Larry Ingram The balls they drop, they scatter, or are they squared
for girls tangling in social parties, still scheming under the guise of gangsters playing within the rules, of bikes tangled about the dirt, barely transgressed with Spring, a nightmare for freezing, for refrigerated lives of weeks past, they barely register to dangling legs stuck to pedals, quickly skirmishing the lane, a healthy dose of aerobic wheels. They'll be twins by the time it's really spring, taking turns with sisters, house guests of play time, swinging from house to house, panicking with current dance, ballet and tap are lively art houses, there and swinging tennis across the ages, as they eat hourly their fancy hearts, dressed to make the next one as real as the culdesac that melds into the grocery store, with plenty of candy for the next game. © 2015 Larry Ingram It started out snowy and continued to pile on the white,
as though to trash love, missing for years, more than a decade has passed since we last loved to talk with more than a flower, frozen now beneath reflected sun, cleaning as though she was found, and how could we not see clearly to truth, what happened when daring men see darkly to youth, taking and basking in evil. It's only now, years have passed in still cracking voices, staccato in emotion, attacking a last outpost, a fort that doubles as nursery rhymes, taken to extreme they explain a mother lost in cemeteries, wanting for more than blooms, as life ebbs with ice, crackling in glasses, mirrored in what we know as life beneath glass, she waits biding her time as men plot the demise of yearning fathers. Yes the cover is here for all sorts of winter gloom, waiting for minutes, hours to pounce on unsuspecting backseats, for only a minute the see the nicest family broken, falling down steps as a black car steadily parks for a nice dinner that isn't really that, as exclaimed on the poster of a formal missing girl, she reflects in strangers seated there - for all to suspect she will be found, recovered in winter. © 2015 Larry Ingram They talk on screen as though to state their
case of loss, boys and their turns at jumping, scaring life out of tall scaffolds, not meant to rappel down to lakes, freezing with absence. This try will go down into history as breaking silence and sleeping sheets, scarred with wonder. We'll take a ride to fishing poles and set about the trip with hate and beating walls, bricks of Russia, weathered with years, rough with hope in mothers, handling moats, swimming across to a couch filled with blue, blue dust of furnaces, guarding warmth and ash. It stops without warning and slowing, churns to listing, ready for the morning at east with daring balls, blasting across the pike, to another staring contest, waiting for embers of hate to die. It's in the backseat, drenched, dying with galacial pastimes, refreshing this lie. Always you are welcome, but beware of elegant daggers, slaying about the hardwood, a favorite of this copying father, as Lucy makes her way onto the screen, cool as every, she pouts to nearly winner awards, slowly it recedes to nothing. But always welcome to be forgotten, you were hardly here when the dinner was trashed. Cackling outside with fake Russian mobsters in Norway or Sweden, with frayed budgets hemoraging actors in pace with a decade or two, taking turns to read titles substituting for life, for this curse of quality, the raw wood, the dank life of childlessness, almost a cigarette of emotion, it emboldens Vodka and a motherland meant for young boys. © 2015 Larry Ingram Nails and there are hardly taken when we'll
make the snarling broadside there when it lashes about the gunnels. As though we were captain all all those dead nails lived in our hands while we plowed through treacherous waves, darkening our skies. It's natural to regain a foothold and then to slip on wooden planks strewn over the edge of nightmares and soft cuddly hammers. As though they sailed about the world, and then they really did take captives and mark their sails for crosswinds, making fast all the tears of soul, we wander about the darkness, wary of winds, southerly and stout to take our scurvy, limes, lemons as they are tart to our touch, as they meld minds and starch that's meant to be near to men sleeping, as they can only ride the waves while they stand. A picture of the tossing to sides, to neither far nor near to remembering the last time we made it quickly to shore, to as far as we could carry to sink our anchor, wait for rowers to lay the backs into our best wares, oars made for stirring memories of the South Seas, south of Kingdoms farfetched as mothers, fathers can long last offspring, daring to tame the world, tame the screw and rudder and many a mainsail that ponders our next trip. © 2015 Larry Ingram I was or wasn't hear when the weather man asked
to forecast the brainwaves, and friends came to call - or really to borrow lines of how relatives behaved - or missed the next shipment of long explanations about life, about children daring to compete with nets and running, bobbling the next pass - or score at will. Still, I asked the same of you, and you responded with the same you are and how and why you shaded the next tale, or simply made it up on the spot, so surely dogs and other breeds can surely tell which is fake and counterfeit, as strange as it spells the truth as you are not afraid of a little fireworks, as they cross the sky. It will never be brotherly to remain not hugging the shore, or even the calamity that we all saw, even with anti-depressants inhibiting the weather, balmy or stormy with snow, cold, blustery days as they stay inside, these expressions that remake childhood into rules, guarding reality as is plain as day, waiting for the real us to show up, telling no lies to neighbors. © 2015 Larry Ingram |
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