TheGreatSpyExperim

I am resting with a bowl of oatmeal Not in a hurry to get anything done. The day has yet to begin, Where it will lead I do not know But it is full of promise. I rest in the joy of my anticipation, Stasis on a Saturday morning. I could learn to live like this, Reclining and watching the aimless sky To be filled with forgiveness.

The eye follows the farmer, girdled by a cloud He raises his whip in the moment of action And it herds the sun, some bolt of lightning Snarling, Hermes asserts its position That has been tarried by its silken ears. Always, our despairing claims of place and position Eager to reach the center of the universe. The thunder will die down, sick of our arrogance His golden load will shred to hay In the harsh voices of his wife and children The animals bleating in his yard And the rattling of feed trays to be filled. The painter hears the fury of the horses Sings quietly with the envious storm. The poet emerges to the rustling of long grass Beate

garish colours in a sandbox and the deep Carolina blue sky that has seen all arched its back overhead and watched as the current flicked out and the beds of the pools started drying the yucca here are special you cannot touch them they feel like straw they bend a little and crinkle the dust motes on the concrete land come from above there is dust everywhere dirt. the parched concrete floor is white and marbled with dust-banks places where the wind reached down to slow itself as it careened through the empty spaces. you can see the gaps in between slabs places dotted where foliage began to soak through. they are wrinkles. filled with sixty

 World-Esteem (Noun) 1. Rating one's surroundings from 1-10; the scale misleadingly missing a maximum, having grossly underestimated the human superpowers of comparison and dissatisfaction. 2. Thinking well of one's situation but always hitting a glass ceiling; Indistinct urge to peak optimistically accompanied by impossibly dense seed of doubt nestling somewhere dark. Symptomatic of smiling too hard for too long. Disproportional to candor. 3. Chivalrous attempt at consoling oneself. 4. Not evident in children who hold up Harry Potter books awaiting their Hogwarts letters. Once again I existed in different states With one foot in the di

I Receding birdcalls of a corner stairwell. Sullen pipes heaving upward on metal elbows, dim vines. Contained in surreal submarine-portholes, The foliage outside stirs the air and shutters the white sun, Run-down old shack with its generator quietly spinning, Open windows feeding these shelves lizard excrement. I remember how we met, how calmly. II Three months of anticipation in classrooms end. One hundred people filling in a lonely theatre. The chronic fidgeting grows worse. The fat pigeons overreact at crumbs and lever their wings, so happy. Aggravated teachers shout passively at students with their eyes during the assembly. ORDER.

In the free-roaming space between tasks you attend my thinking the way you show up unannounced at school, an arm or a leg sticking out under sheets of ruggedly romantic travel destinations that i've already made plans for, or discretely painted into magnetic works of art that burrow all the way through your skin making you conscious of your stewardship of your life, and if that isn't magnanimous enough, yours alone. You brush against me and hit a buried, dumbed-down nerve. I am silently conscious of the distance that is to come between us- what all this will mean when we feel the attraction of our variant flight paths arou

When he comes home he comes in without knocking. He is a thin wisp slipping into the still cavity of a house, leaving behind a thread woven from misplaced items. A delicate heat signature. He is a cat laboriously dusting its hair over furniture, waiting for some suffocated heart to show itself, leap, and sneeze.

Progressing through the sheet of snowfall you'll find a spilled a teal forest whose tips bleed out in branch veins and seep into the cold fibres of the parchment sky. An inkwell spreading its inky feet in the snow. far below the houses have black stone windows like pits and crisp shapes, like someone boarded over the windows to seal a secret in. A dangerous, writhing story to tell, there must be a reason to why the light crawls and swells around the edges of the pane, a snowy meniscus of white against nothing that hurts the vision. Leave a hero for too long and a summer's home becomes a clawing icy burden shut in behind

Gypsy hopefuls once told me, there are flights leaving for any destination at any given instant Upon sizing up our town with a fingernail did you realise how little our frustrations were? I spoke about this ineffable feeling of stepping out of one tub and into new water. The hotel was done up nicely, chandeliers and polished English accents. Labels aside they still mixed milk into their coffee and had toast with jam and butter. I was living under the impression that most of the Internet came from my same slice of city pie, conveniently forgetting about the undersea cables. I loathed the lack of vernacular sentence s

Written after Harrison (George Harrison Ford) His eyes are like a red ring of tiny blossoms springing from patterned navy beds. With a sharp twist through the water he fans out behind him a bouquet of tall violet fronds, a forest, a ballooning flamenco skirt   tapering white at the edges. It is hard to tell where the tail ends and the fish starts, like an enhancement attached all around his body crowning him, he is so much lesser without the tail, so much smaller, just a blue-black comma. Motionless, suspended in the water with tissue-paper fins undulating, he might as well have earned his place beside the stolid shot glass