archer compress night like an accordion
usher its scenery into outer wings
the lady wears her black mantilla
archer fold nightmares into paper fans
fetch fanned breezes for the mothy air
the lady day dreams.
archer lower your bow
the lady dreams leaves out of bare wood
she dreams trees for the forest where
you will have lease to shoot.
Groove 5: [inaudible]
in childhood recall reading books that seal fate. Selections will be displayed in the MUSIC ROOM (above).
childhood simplicity: a lover of artifacts.
Mourn the commonplace. Stitch the embroideries (depicted ). Hold
the black silk, unassuming, over the beloved.
I feel overwhelmed. So I decided to reblog these figures from some time ago. Figures, as I mention on my about page, are what I use to illustrate complex concepts. I am working on some new figures, too, which I will publish later. I think they are about the word ENOUGH, but we’ll see.
Black swan would like you to know that he is overwhelmed, too. He is squawking and flapping his wings in the tidal marsh below to communicate his persistent shock and dismay. We ate TURKEY on Thursday, not swan, but it still was not a good day for the black swan. (click here if you don’t know what I’m talking about). Soon, I’m going to have to dump out the bones, and I just hope they’ll fall somewhere he’ll never see them.
So here’s an old post, on the word OVERWHELM.
Figures [click to enlarge]:
I look up
like I’ve fallen down stairs.
Fourth and final in my series of Immortal Portraits of my FASHIONable friends.
Crow insisted I make the first portrait. I’m sure it’s some kind of trick.
The second portrait is more representative.
Crow approved them both.
(Conversations with crow are indexed in the “Crow” category to your right.)
Sunday I published a post on FASHION. Monday morning, I was abruptly aroused by a commotion. The birds were prodding, poking, mooning at the window, desperate for me to roll over and let them in.
Miffed by their presumptuousness, but now awake, I climbed out of bed to make a small breakfast. I watched the kettle boil (it does happen, but it takes a long long time, as I anticipated), and sat idle for a full six-minute tea steep. I baked a bun from scratch, ate it morsel by morsel, dropping all sorts of desirable crumbs which the birds could not eat. I read my very first piece of mail seven times seven times over. At last, I opened the window.
To a spazzle-dazzle flurry of highly-excited, almost agitated birds.
Apparently, birds are very FASHIONable, a fact I had failed to observe in all my days in the obelisk (though I had noticed the black swan’s exorbitant vanity).
All week damask and leather occlude my view, collars and pantaloons sail over my head, shifts and roses hover mid-air, borne in beaks of birds. Or claws. There are swords in here. Ridiculous stockings. A crook-necked staff? Jewel boxes.
FASHION squawk the birds, preening. REGARD ME.
To appease them, I’m making portraits. Immortal Portraits of my FASHIONable friends, the birds.
First, the black swan, of course:
(Conversations with the black swan are indexed in the “Black Swan” category to your right.)