I feel creeping evil from all around the rose. I'd thought it long since dead, but, oh, it grows and grows. It was only dormant - just biding its time. Its suffocating burden weighs on all sound minds. Oh, when will it reach here? One can never know. It will sneak up on us on silent tippy-toes.
a shallow stream, texture everchanging, glazes the forest floor.
the forest stays low, creeping up the valley: like advancing forces, but that hill isn't taken -- season after season.
in rivalry for passers' attention: jackfruit & rice field
low afternoon sun makes the old mountains look crisply creased.
the cockeyed blossom has a winning charm that makes me look twice.
You are not the heroes
you think yourselves to be,
dreaming up perfect worlds
that can never be.
Anyone can picture
a far-fetched perfection,
and groan of other's faults
with dead-eyed disaffection.
Stand on a hill and howl.
Don't wait for the perfect moon.
Gather your thoughts,
& wash the:
cliches,
doublespeak,
technocratic jargon, and
weasel words
out of mind & mouth.
(Those shitty words, phrases,
and qualifiers are heavy,
and will weigh down
your message &
keep it from sailing.)
Then, belt it out.
Let your words fly.
Express your authentic self.
Huff & Puff,
and let the bricks fall
where they may.
Tiger Riding for Beginners 