"The world's smallest painting ... Our Beautiful Canada was painted with a single hair and the aid of a microscope. The artist considers his price of seven million dollars not too high." ...
Jungle, the cave human reservoir & cistern ... . quagmire and bog, but no alpine meadow, fairest glance of goodness in soiled wildflower under winter snows.
I'm sitting in a "sixties bar." No put-on. All around old Rolling Stones music is playing. I can tell it's a sixties bar by the spiffy waiter recycling sheets for tablecloths. The sixties was "into," environment....
That Captain Kidd scribbling of rock in the fields yellowed bristle of pages back of a farm where piratical breaking of land knocks clean holes in the soil, gypsy dancers vernal growth before...
Too greedy hormonal levels, savouring drives and swooned walrus tusks behind the deep belly of tireless sea, propel ocean crates looser for their water than blood to devour cavernous shores,...
And what of privileged things mur & frankinscense or sandlewood - yes, teak, ambergris or skies of indigo blue - I cite these gifts, caravans offered as treasure Christopher Wren putting...
These eyes of dolls seem leaden stones not canisters of the Faith but cannon-balls engraved in tome-like stares so much waxen shapes, these dust cloths & spidery webs.
A man weeps at your ankles, climbs the stairs to peek-a-boo panties, with finger clasps, a Rapunzel lowering your hair, the long-matted braids a skilful weaver turns to gold.
Orange lichens, in sun-like clusters, entomb the Rockface wall a sheer ascent from the waterline into glassy viscous green - - the plummet from skyward to lake face passes breathless squadrons...
A magnificent Red Devil splayed out in his tracks; this tumultuous soul, baron of the backwoods with his provenance unknown ... this compromise to individuality abandons him to chorome death...
It's snowing and all I can think of are leaves to wrap your memory, leaves pungent as tea, green curls alive with the promise of fire, shutes like fingers to play a tap on your skin. ...
The long finger of blackness is holding its head for us. Dingy bue is its shade, comatose in movement, hazarding a slow swiftness, it inches toward us.