Prediction: The Cold Stone In The Chest

My Beloved -Her Name Harvester- announced that she was leaving with a voice only slightly more dedicated than it was to breath.

My Beloved -Her Name Kerf Straightener-was cutting cucumbers for a salad, and continued without the slightest recognition to the weight of what she had just uttered.
My Beloved -Her Name Weather Vane- knew the power of her words but had been moved beyond concern for the damage that they may cause.

I threw myself at her feet. I stare at her toes; there I could see in her posture that this had been something fully decided.
My Beloved -Her Name Severence Package- had already banished me from her heart and I would no longer be recognized there.

I felt dragged between two powerful beasts, the neglect of one and the extortion of the other.
I want this all noted for the record, though I make no excuses for my behavior. This happened.

Work Horse

I own you because I have to.
I am not self-sufficient.

When I tried to be poor, I was thrown gold;
When I kept the gold, I was called a wastrel;
When I gave it back, I was shunned for my ingratitude.
And you tried to please me, but I will never be pleased.

We are simpatico; We both know futility.

We made the land work, but neglected the niceties.
Those who have done the reverse dislike us.

We dislike ourselves for the work seems like grief.
And what is work anyway but a turgid mirror
whose revelations quiver in recalculation:

We are something today; we are nothing today.
We are something today; we are nothing tomorrow.

With Certain Blue Crystallizations

The night is of the color
Of a woman's arm
Night, the female,
Obscure,
Fragrant and supple,
Conceals himself.
A pool shines ,
Like a bracelet
Shaken in a dance.

I measure myself
Against a tall tree.
I find that I am much taller,
For I reach right up to the sun,
With my eye;
And I reach to the shore of the sea
With my ear.
Nevertheless, I dislike
The way the ants crawl
In and out of my shadow.

When my dream was near the moon,
The white folds of the gown
Filled with yellow light.
The soles of its feet
Grew red.
Its hair filled
With certain blue crystallizations
From stars,
Not Far off.

Not all the knives of the lamp-posts,
Nor the chisels of the long streets,
Nor the mallets of the dromes
And high towers,
Can carve
What one star can carve,
Shining through the grape-leaves.

I Can't Be More Clumsy With My Inferences.

Longing Of The Wayward Cloud

Sometimes it's the heat and the humidity.

The Beloved Infidel (C-Up v.1)

Of course all of life is a process of breaking down, but the blows that do the dramatic side of the work- the big sudden blows that come, or seem to come, from outside- the ones you remember and blame things onand, in moments of weakness, tell your friends about, don't show their effect all at once.

There is another sort of blow that comes from within- that you don't feel until it's too late to do anything about it, until you realize with finality that in some regard you will never be as good a man again.

The first sort of breakage seems to happen quick- the second kind of happens almost without your knowing but is realized suddenly indeed.
- Admiral Fitzwallace (Trimalchio, O' say can you see, Uncle Francis Scott Key?)

-these photos have all been used before- REHASH -death of the thinking bone, but we still love you Pat Hobby