So things are spinning. So how does the ground resist? So how can this stand?
two types of weather: rain and not-rain in combat... one of them will win.
Some suns shine longer On the blue cupric sea's bay. For example: summer's.
An unexpected crisis crafts doubts. Why this body's betrayal, now? How is the world so unfair? Can anything be done? Where is this going? How bad is it? Who can help? What if? And?
nothing stretches out, a metropolis of doubt, vast tracts of maybe
Maybe there's something, despite the rain, that needs to get done. This dull rain cannot prevent such tasks. Rain speckles the water. Rain is a constant. Rain cleans hillsides. Rain greets me. Rain speaks. Rain.... Rain.
rain on the smooth lakes, a Makaskan winter's fields, the loamy, cool earth
The last few days, the rain has returned. It's hard to find motivation. I make some progress with maps. It's nice to breathe wet air. Spots speckle water. The green trees bend. Insects fly. Streams race. Watch.
failure to compose: the meanings fail to enchain, no words trundle out
counting syllables is the way to satisfy this form's requirement
The point of writing is to silence the murmurs that line the world's edge.
a stasis unfolds possessing the small spaces that surround the days
Fools suffer distressing vicissitudes, while the world just spins: cupric waters stand still, the bears stroll along the roads and the moon rakes the paling sky. So this fool sits and watches it all.
One contemplates goals but taking action is hard. Better just daydream.
Oh, what should I write? There's that tree out the window. But it's not so new.
under a gold sky and tasting the smoky air: anthropocene dreams
suppose a pink cloud overtook the dull drizzle and declared day's end
It is four A.M. and the sky is brightening, so when should I sleep?
unreal words deployed carve out landscapes in the mind like lucid dreaming
that crunch of some tires on the gravel road up there a few times a day