At the shore
At the work the work the root the reed ~*
Did I ever think a trout was finer
the grandeur of the colors on the side
the colors of the carp against mud the floating algae
the tan and green and yellow reed
colors of a person I recall at nightPush that the seen bend
colors of a person I might see in her child in her aunt in her cousin
Push at colors
Ever the work obrar filtrar the slow
consumation
.done ~*
So wd I work
& work@ LISA
So who's LISA?
Legal Information Service Associates
And who is LISA to me?
Better sleep with the fishies.
3 comments:
There she is, sitting there reading the Art Section of the New York Time, and she's shaking these little town blues. She is oblivious to her beauty or anybody noticing her beauty. She's deep in meditation. She's that rainbow I'm dreaming about in my sunshine dream.
Because of her, ignorance of everything about life now has an exception. Measureless is the time I'm waiting for her. She takes nothing if not patience.
I drift near, looking beyond her. A look of I'm not interested is in my eyes. I pass close enough to touch. Still I look ahead. Excitement is being contained.
I walk to the verge and look into the window at her reflection. Three minutes or more I drift back past her. With deception the hunter is stalking the hunted. The vision in my sunshine dream is my prey. She's my rainbow and my pot of gold. She will be mine. I'm feeling patient and determined.
The reflection of her face looks up at me as I drift back past. In the opposite window I see her eyes on me. Casual and relaxed I saunter to my seat. With my back to her at my table I stop. I put my hands on my hips and wiggle my body with contained stretching, then stop again.
I take a deep breath and let it out with calculated precision. In one predatory cat like movement I turn around and sit down facing her. I catch her by surprise. Now she is looking in my eyes. She has no choice, she is taking the bait, with one vulnerable smile she strikes. My rod lifts right then. She's hooked. I reel her in with words she generates in the pleasure center of my cortex.
Hi Bill, This was a snippet of an epic narrative I wrote regarding living for the 'strike', and who is the hunter and who is the hunted is the theme. In the preceding prose, the girl was the hunter, did you realize that? Men are delusional.
I'm sure your realizing all the blurbs the other day were me? Keep having fun. I'll just watch, till I get an inkling of what the hell is going on.
You know who I am right, or do I have to tell you?
I know it ain't me.
Bill's not here, BTW. Did you want to talk to David?
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