abandoned farmstead -- a blip in the flat-wide spaces of the industrial-agro-manufactured prairie the barn, dilapidated the vehicles & implements, rusted weeds growing from every crack tall, blonde grass - waving like ripe wheat - stands in both front & back yards something has died on the prairie something is returning to dust & weed something is lost
I woke up rife with Morlock memories. What a damnable time it was! The days when I was not a boy, and not a man -- nothing for which anyone had a good word. Maybe I was a shadow: two-dimensional & wonky in shape. I was that which lived below: below ground, below the radar, below comprehension.
Wildlife charges through the city like the bulls of Pamplona, a stampede of death from a river of life, a river that flows turbulently, crashing and slopping. Nothing can falter before the stampede. Each step must land solidly, each step until one's last.
A place of rage w/ days tricked out into hamster wheel activity, actions of unknown purpose & unknown origin
the lake is low. where'd the water go? i don't know... but you can bet squirrels aren't at fault.
Rivers merge. Trees may fork, but rivers merge. True, sometimes rivers split to form an island, and when they near the sea they may branch out like the roots of a tree. How the river knows it's near the sea is unclear to me, but it is the river's nature. As is the tendency of rivers to merge toward unity of flow. But what is my nature?
Sunlight breaks over the city, and the people on the streets remain within the shadows. But those who turn their heads up see the vibrant colors, while those who stare down to the pavement drift deeper into shadow.
Someone put a tiny, limp-gunned tank
on Danube west bank --
in Budapest, opposite Parliament.
Unsubtle symbolism, indeed,
but worth noting:
The might of violence
made feeble in the face of democracy,
and all that.
So true,
and yet so few
seem to believe it.
We seem to believe
that matching savagery
is the key to strategy
in opposing the extreme,
but then we've really just made more
extremism, haven't we?
The bronze goblin rides the world. Its wide eyes always open, taking in everything that happens on the street: brisk business-like strides of mid-morning, mid-day strolls, slumped evening plods, midnight staggers, and witching hour stumbles. It sees you when you're meeting, and knows when it's legit.
The gothic cathedral is dark -- unilluminated, but for the flickering orange flames of votive candles, and the weak winter light of a gloomy December day that warms the panels of stained glass. A pew creaks. A tiny movement makes a giant sound, owing to the stony acoustics. The pew is creaking from the restless fidgeting of the church's sole occupant.
Tiger Riding for Beginners 