250-a-day

Russo-ubero quietude. I know not what to do with you. Collective incompetente meistroso ideograph chalked out in charcoal awarness. Your eys are bark brown amber lollipops of you, cooled sap of glucose polymers, presenting a glass wall through which I can only occasionally see and hear you. I listened and you listened more. I knew not that human beings could do thus: a humano-sensitivity that thrusts me through a juicer of citirc acid limelight of 50 billion gallons and 20 mph. For you every fruitation is a meaning attempt to create more, an impression on human history that will last the stretch of time. And why not? We have what we think. We think what we have. And soemtimes, when we think thus, others think after us in a simiar fashion. Or they think we're crazy. The risks are those that the great and the insane have taken. The boundary is as subjective as who prefers Grandma's bnana cream pie to Aunt Etna's banana cream pie. It is who supports your cream pie with staunch determination that you hold and protect in your legion, and all others are enemies, destroyers of your carefully defended fleet. You, my luminary illuminated graceful metaphors beneath the spotted porchlight with highly selective cheesecloth and the sensitivity of my best friend's mimosa. Best friends are always tres sensitive. They spend time in granite caves and dance gracefully around memories of two-and-two. The pleasure we take is still there, now a group of pages only shaded by ochered-lamplight, aged, curled, biology scented and salt and earth warmed, wormed your way into my permanent memory the way I'll always remember the first time I left the sand box when I was two and ran all the way to the Stop and Shop. The sudden Neitzchean realization of self was too crushing to bear. My consiousness reformed the way raw eggs break and reform synaptic bonds over heat: more quickly that yellow ducks can fall from the sky under schizophrenic mania. I am as Daphne in your silt-soft hands of mineral cool sliding over and over and over the way a forest reclaims the salt march, unwittingly to the forest, the trees and the animals that populate it, determinately to the history of marsh-forest reclamation patterns. I decorate summer ice halls with your image, only now it is mine reflected a thousand times in cacaphony. Let's chew negativity on a sun-formed hill and feed just-torqued ice cubes to geese. I miss that awful permanence.