i dream what to write. a sunny paragraph about an african day in the hills. dust on the road. words repeat themselves from long times gone by. nothing is new. not the sun, especially not my lines. light dictates the picture for me. but my lids are weary. i want to submerge with a slow crocodile, eyes softly buoyed, let those smells write themselves. post themselves somewhere else. but i want to be here. i need to be near. my words. being gifts to me, they are surprises. or should be. or should they? is that a problem?

stifled paper-shrieks

slithery razzle-dazzle

this sterile word love

seasofme081117