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.

8 comments:

  1. 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.

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  2. Very nice, Mr. B. Very concise.

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

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  4. fabulous, with a touch of rustic beauty.

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

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  6. Very nice!! Thanks for sharing!
    -Alex

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  7. 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.

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Yes?