I've seen in ordinary eyes a special twinkling glow. In rough and sinewy muscle I've seen a grace in throe. From rotund torsos, I have seen a lithesome prance or strut. I've seen a thing called character, in schnozzes that kink or jut. If beauty below the surface, it finds you splendor-blind. Then defect 's not in the object but in the viewer's mind.
This town has known many a name of ancient, medieval, and modern kind. It's known more slurs than names, by far, and yet this people place remains.
two common trees,
seen from a distance,
merge to an ideal.
A smoky morning signals chilly air as those who live with walls of plastic sheet gather anything matches set aflare, and huddle where skin reddens from the heat. The toxic kindling of modernity can burn so quickly, swirling into ash. The search for fine fuel builds fraternity as all sift through the varied kinds of trash. They seek a slow and steady type of fire, but poison and explosive burn aren't linked. This toxic gas hangs low, where they inspire, a deadly vapor which makes this clan extinct. Smoldering pit, skirted by serene stiffs -- of what killed them, there remains no whiff.
There was a Bible-thumping lady from Charleston who, in her views, was no less than puritan. She tried to ban books she hadn't given a look because, like "Moby Dick," the titles were smut-ridden.
There was a bike-rick driver in Huế always honked at for being in the way. He took loads fit for a truck, drove 'em crosstown for a buck, and got their faster by using the expressway.
There was a shrewd carpenter from Zambia dismayed to hear what was paid to IKEA. He took apart his shelves, said, "Make 'em yourselves!" upped his rates, but threw in a hex key-a.
Tiger Riding for Beginners 