Casualty of understanding, the nexus between done and undone. My premises clean swept, venturing not onto dull signed roads of previous crossing, patient, formidable foes would follow us home, producing nightmare. What then is escape but that which comes after the rage implied by wonder. On the permafrost I slipped catching a hand pommel, stretched tendons laughing at ideal limits and promising to torture a morning. Dancing through hobbles glen, I stop to reason with madness, it only stares back making monkey faces. Does wisdom follow folly hoping to see it drop those veils of misunderstanding and shadow? No, it waits, for it is the prize of all who wander to rooftops, looking for a safer road. We shall not chase what we dare not face, leaving absolute chance to fates expectation.  These are not times for discipline and surety, this is the day of the loose handed grip and a proper dive roll from the window.

How proper this similitude, how tailored this conclusion to a ransacked parlor and a deleterious snake charmer, seizing opportunity and frail reason prize.  Commodity’s breach, sand leaking from poked satchel, leaving passage for all to follow.  What then is a hidden man, a sanctimonious pursuant of perfect pardon? Passions forgetfulness, bland perception, nothing new, nothing catching glamour’s fancy, but wholesome as Patchwork Patty.  What passes for complication within the body politic, what love lost when it had yet been invented? How dreams are dashed on rock so smooth, one would think soft landing possible. But parched throat’s cry til dawn then perish in the noonday bake.  And shakedown’s summit threatens to make nonsense out of nimbus, twirling higher than twilight’s torpid tempest. A raucous rainbow sown to blossom from strato’s garden all beholding to its promise of red moons and wet mornings for pirates to plunder.

Where have I gone that cannot be forgotten with dousing or grousing for a time and measure? King’s amalgam decree, promises us we’re free, but the small print or script or whispering willows of disinclined benevolence shall show us the way back to poverty’s palace. She beheld a wish, standing quite still, hoping to shimmer in the shade so that it’s presence is unmade, like a bed when company has come. And in the barbecued horizon we see the blackened season, overdone, forced, but sardonic.  I write until I cannot fight slumber’s heavy hand upon my brow and am done for now in the sadness of lost moment, or song or marmalade painted lily. This day may not be gone until I’ve squeezed it soundly, removing every flavor, sent and sarcasm.  Drained of its blood til blackness presents and events become slo mo in Cocomo valley.

What paints will be left for the morrow, when sorrows grey and pinkish purple stain the hearts of those heralding continuous joy? For today was august, crimson and emerald to cherish in the palliative progress of passion’s pander.  No more dally or dilly or silly man made pleasantry to greet the morn. This is not the day for immoral to quarrel or the simple to chance dimple but the after and noon which come to soon and stay to short, where ner’ do wells cavort and the pompous snivel and court. Promises are proffered but never offered for these few cherish what they shall never do and pray for the palsies leisure and pleasure of saucy story absent nobility’s glory and the stains of decadent’s mire.