Seasons and Holidays Past items (poems and prose)
are in this journal.
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Concerning the summer of 1976. On this summer's last day having read all about Kingsor's flaming rouge bride a colorful tete-a-tete cooled over a month's ration of hot expresso coffee, so that's it. The carpenters shingle the roof of this dream as well-constructed as Gertrude's piano, bending with the spectrum of promising light through a primary school prism. The odor of the cat litter box, Oz's only fuzzy scent, was what all came after, all after the day you tiled the floor , dreaming about a bath in a hot tub. Together we could be only as close as being close to you could be and as fast as Tabishia wised it could be. We rode a royal cockhorse sternly listening for the missing good parts of the stories told by a blonde German father who wrote Anglo-Saxon prayers and who studied Huang Ti ('en) letters to Kim and Jim avidly. I dream of you saying in time, "Seaside lemons," feverishly "leave me the NY Times and don't forget to water your plants, baby." You have gone off to lay in the sun or play with the mistake sheets, off to buy gorgeous groceries, out to lunch. Oh, your feet were icy at first but warmer later when the dawn was as sticky as molasses, as I dreamed of Mr. Atlas and the flair I had for dreaming about world atlas maps at the same time like an enthusiast for traveling. It was too much fun to think of your loud black sock, the one you couldn't find and the tuna casserole I fixed for your love. Love is a gamble. All a very real gamble. A kiss hung in the balance and the birds in the trees laced the shrill sounds to a wedded future. I wanted to buy all the chances to love you even in to late December. I was telling the fashion model all about how I like to speak of cold winters where summer is in bloom somewhere else, a a pensive moment. The fashion model justed wanted to keep quiet, so I shoved the party food from my plate with the French word for garbage` knowing anything subliminal was as lost as fool's gold. She finally said, "Why haven't you found a cure for sharing secrets? Hmm?" I am breathing timid fire. My love letters now posted, I will be searing for your love, lost with the purple domino madonna's housecoat on. I asked too many city poets how it sounds to buy up all of the city's bleeding flowers. All I can seem to hear is the cry of the fashion model again, who asks, "Will Apollo and Venus be coming late to the garden party for Beethoven's funeral?" I smile and whisper to her that I know them both to be dead. |