June 24, 2012

A shell game of groans against the day 
again these tings they connote: slay
the dragon well good enough now 
when you think of monks, chip 

per the rabid in the noonsky

oh me oh my kitty pot pie
let us go now and pop up from stately pleasure dome
you and sly walk back through 
before you could crawl
drag on these weary tropes: answer for the muir if 
you would demure to 
share this bench 
with me 

mith we

maybe aloe maybe so
surround your self with your future selves
oversqyarerend tell me how it came to be sell me last, quell my past
unring what is sung up on

a ganglion DANCE
of fourmofo-cosmo hisseld: old granfad laid to rest,
he made the best of the wurst of intonations, resonant to the last rasp the end he foughttokeepbackagainst theremainsoftheclay for
THIS WAS TOM
OR ROW

i don't glow, she sighed dully.

Maine has entered the geography of my dreams. I cannot remember what we were doing in Canada, but we were sailing back from Saskatchewan to Maine in a boat that was so small that my feet dragged in the water. It was winter, but I did not freeze somehow. At each province border crossing, the Maine tourism board had set up little cabins to sell Maine-made stuff and to advertise the Honey Smith (no idea). This was only accessible to boats of about our size, and along a very skinny waterway. However this waterway managed to get us from Manitoba to Maine in about five minutes.