I trailed the last teacher
when she said it was not saved. Then he cursed the night, and into the air it vanished. As though it would not be reigned in by cowboys, steers wanting for territory their own. Still, it was gone from the day to night. Beautiful in orange glow to translucent that says you never really were here. But anger stayed on that spot - the realm of beef - stewing for days, it comes and goes - but for sunshine, biscuits and gravy in the morning, we would have been there. Well, not me but the traveling companion who first complained of tartar, of sauce baked long and slow with whites, with stains that were to be remnants that led me to the mountain. But Kilimanjaro was never like this cubicle, this room, I favor for drama, for simple walls - usually blocking something in memory banks. Totally immersed, it was not ever saved this mist, a spray of my mind that surely you noticed. Please notice or there will be no reason to doodle in pain. At last a break from the ordinary. © 2013 Larry Ingram
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