How can you resist?
The categorical imperative
the calling eclaire?
the white stripe, the shadow of strap,
along the back of a sunburned redhead?
...
I can't.
...
Imagine a world without her
clothes hanging on the line.
The view can make travelling birds sing.
In as much as we dare
to share iced kaluhas
across the fence with neighborlady,
all cutoffs and halter top.
...
I see.
...
No other woman
can wrestle me to the ground
My abandon is her force.
My surrender; her challenge
Who cares if it rains all day
never one to mind much
a little muck in my mede
a little mud on my meat,
and I dream
still, of the taste of eclaires
of bare shoulders and
the upandown moments
fomented on the risers of stairs.
...
I try.
...
Mowing the lawn
on Mondays and Thursdays
Obsession is a perfume
a moon sliced applewise.
...
I dream.
...
More than I ever did
of red ponys and wheelbarrows;
cows shading in pastured trees,
and the thirteen questions you might ask
of certain birds.
Clarity of meaning seems very natural
except when you are dreaming.
...
naturally.
...
I have fallen
out of my habits,
have misplaced those comfortable shoes.
familiar ground becomes alien to the discalced.
and so, unsurely i creep toward
horizon events cradling kaluahs in unsteady hands
and the eclaires, where are those damned eclaires?
Tell her
she has pushed New York City beyond Patagonia
where llama carts wait, their meters running,
oblivious to husband and public outcry
heeding only that greedy little voice
which cringes at the least hint of self negation.
...
Even so,
...
there is age which levels us.
Levels her, with long twining fingers,
Noises in the night; an animal on the porch?
A stirring of wind?
A doubt, a guilt, a thing done or left undone?
...
A lifetime
...
of figurative speech
to better describe an impossible character
shoulders burdened, a tangled tongue
swollen ankles stuffed into high-rise heels.
she assumed that if she left enough clues
he would find her.
It appears, ironically, that she is more transparent
than she thought.
...
Daybreak!
...
...and more wandering, more wreckless driving
from knife's edge to purgatory
more ploughing of thought, a purified heart
able to say I love you
Send her this damp note
I need no return
only a few hours sipping tea in a berber tent
Thousands of roads to her
wrapped around my trap
...
Stranded
...
in a cobbled desert,
a single tree for the many circling birds
wanting perch.
But her feet are soiled,
Only carrion eaters will court her,
calling her name with putred breath
"Baby", they call her;
Sweetness, Hot Stuff, Whore;
Give me what i haven't earned,
and will never deserve!
They say.
She replies; "only find my name",
...
Her name
...
Ellen Claire,

I think those eclaires are in the archives......lol M
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Very well then. If must be: off to the archives...f
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this doesn't seem to want to end...looks like we can still squeeze some lines out...it's fun...M
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i'll leave the w in wreckless ;-) M
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f, hard to follow that...seems strong enough to end this river...no? M
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Thanks M, for playing, i agree enough of this...f