old lament...
storytellers
with wide eyes
touching dawn that never sleeps...
parade day of happy pigs in washed out
noonday colors...
the bubbles and waves of the muses
with their pastel baskets
paint an abstract imperfect portrait of the
clearly born viaduct threading the hours' needle
that stitches together the dry land's gray pain
full of thirsty dogs...
with happy talk and burning desires
our nude grace turns red again...
stones overshadow monotony
and under facial hair
a son is on fire in the father...
black frost is already yeasty in the fetus
hanging on...
everybody is shining
in the sea...
white lies at town hall
mutter misty eyed promises...
sexy pumpkins in the rose garden
save face...
it is the gambler's lazy day
with the television's blindfold
calling silver arrows home to nest with the last straw...
handsome candles rise out of fire...
wise old wine is on its way...
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