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I dreamed of brown, of
straining fields of grain - of nights vaulting over castle walls - they stay up for the morning assault of senses. Awake they lie about the grass, though cows maroud in laughter, stoic they meander in cud, bringing stilted conversation. It's to converse, to be sure of bright colors that careen, a comet making a way across pots, bubbling in anger. It happens to be a rising tide that causes her to embrace the sand, grounds for desertion, taken to extreme - expressed. Espresso is to mock rudiments of conversation too loud to reckon it written in prose, this store will likely encourage them to target poetry. It's likely that snobs take to it like knats they mimic Breanna who walks around in gales of laughter - but the cause is the brew, the drug. © 2013 Larry Ingram
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It's the rhyme really - the three
settle on a leisurely life, choosing for us against our will. Yet, reason and happenstance are ready for the bourgeous, who take their selection from storefronts haunted by envelopes of bullets. You realize that yesteryear, would not have been possible on this meager diet, the rightness of juxtaposition, the reverie of flavor and taste. It makes all things better, even in the wrong hands. Dangerous and efficient, in the wrong hands, sure it's the grill that settles with a new oven, wily as it pass masterful bread, sauce, sausage as it fakes pepperoni. Caesar was hear when busy bees dosed out life - as bread - for investigating pressure - closing in on delight. An assembly line of mixture - passing through the back lot - a story that must be told. © 2013 Larry Ingram It's not so quiet in simmering disagreements.
But we don't hear the birds chirp and sing, we don't hear the strong voice of the barging truck along the same requirement, the same trail for tires. They only need a miserly abandonment of wear; really only a trifle of life - life on any street. But to be dissed, and dissed well. That is certainly a trial, or triumph of the spirit or the will of cowardice. And it's not just there - it's everywhere that we, that you see this. No soft landing here, disagreeing is an Alaska mist - dangerous this, unseen logs rolling in a shivering stream, waiting for human tumblers underground, for permanent company from fools. Or those who are lost, sleepless with the latest act of cruelty or insolence. It's the best methodology for arguments, where before we just simmered below the surface before exploding. It was not cool - such destruction of hearts, souls. And they still burn, they simmer, as I said to you. You never minded it though, since it was below the level of scuttlebutt, which means it was not worth noticing. © 2013 Larry Ingram |
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