Tuesday, July 7, 2009

migrating towards the harvest

there is a rutted road where the mud has dried
in a burnt sienna chorus of angelic certitude.

can you separate the bouncing of rusty shocks
from the season where broccoli must be certain?

when the chrome rims beg for a seamy satisfaction,
it is the leering end for the greasy lips of someone.
Posted by gerry boyd at 4:34 PM

8 comments:

  1. dark wingsJuly 7, 2009 at 7:34 PM

    Keep the dream alive - to migrate is the next chapter in your life, but never lose sight of the love that has once filled you complete - cheers!..Roan.

    ReplyDelete
  2. KayJuly 7, 2009 at 9:21 PM

    hmmmm....

    ReplyDelete
  3. Akeith WaltersJuly 7, 2009 at 10:20 PM

    Very nice, Mr. B. Very concise.

    ReplyDelete
  4. Woman in a WindowJuly 8, 2009 at 6:03 AM

    Convergence, isn't it?
    (or damn, did I miss it again?)
    Wonderful drip of lip, regardless.

    ReplyDelete
  5. thoughtsJuly 8, 2009 at 7:09 AM

    fabulous, with a touch of rustic beauty.

    ReplyDelete
  6. OpaqueJuly 8, 2009 at 3:39 PM

    Hmm, interesting! Concise, still it is quite deep! Keep writing!!!

    ReplyDelete
  7. JosephineJuly 8, 2009 at 7:29 PM

    Very nice!! Thanks for sharing!
    -Alex

    ReplyDelete
  8. joaquin carvelJuly 8, 2009 at 7:30 PM

    this makes me think of fields i used to drive past on my way to work. there are houses there now. love "mud has dried
    in a burnt sienna chorus of angelic certitude" - i see arcs of tractor tire prints.

    ReplyDelete

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