Sunday, November 15, 2009
22. MANAGED TO CLOSE IT:
Was a Willy it was Bill we sat around all day until the moment before the saddle when the journal was opened and before us arose the markers thrown from behind and the rattle – so soon to sing – became our wishes and an old picture book with the fawn and the swishes had blown into town raging fire and light as everything echoed so far in the night which came without warning like some Harley in flight or a low-measured scooter with an arrow-man’s kite and standing to speak the five-meter’s mentor decided to say what he felt about his situation alone as the band lounged on stage and three men with bad masks arrived from some coast and took us to task for occluding the warning or mining the mint and ten dollar homers waved hardly at most or ten to twenty – the betting man’s odds – decided to interview anyone and the bards from Orion kept staring us down and over it rattled and sooner the sound but just as TOGETHER we’d all thought all the same the grounded town-manners left men in the rain and two teams from Hell one of football and grit stood standing by landings and took quite a bit of our coaxing to dance away from the well where the water flowed sweet and as clear as a bell was the sound of some braying by the factory-head who loaded three Chapman’s and two sheep he called ‘dead’ but they turned in a whistle and broadened the hope for Gabriel’s harness and Newton’s fair scope and I leapt from some bed to see ‘what was the matter’ and turned in my bungle to read Schulman Van Atta (he was a guy from Elmira who sold yellow old cars) and Mark Twain’s delusions sounded better than gold "light up that cigar boys and let’s watch the end for no sooner has that come then ended they send and if you’d like that then Reverend Beecher instead can lend you an office to wear unbestowed and twelve slaves all named Dinker are upcoming swift from the last of monkeys and one final twist on some Underground Railroad of raiment and light - Merry Living to All and TO ALL A GOOD NIGHT!" yet they knew he’d demented and lost every sense this Clemens’s frustration just sat on some fence ‘round a pasture of silver and ten-tons of hay which no matter the cost was more than we’d pay so the whistle had started and three greasy men came along from the meadow to whisper the glen but before any spikes or small change were thrown down it was only a missile and some tiny clown hiding hands under garments and touching all men whether holy or profane it left us to mend and they’d opened some book – as I said at the start – but MANAGED TO CLOSE IT before it got dark.
Was a Willy it was Bill we sat around all day until the moment before the saddle when the journal was opened and before us arose the markers thrown from behind and the rattle – so soon to sing – became our wishes and an old picture book with the fawn and the swishes had blown into town raging fire and light as everything echoed so far in the night which came without warning like some Harley in flight or a low-measured scooter with an arrow-man’s kite and standing to speak the five-meter’s mentor decided to say what he felt about his situation alone as the band lounged on stage and three men with bad masks arrived from some coast and took us to task for occluding the warning or mining the mint and ten dollar homers waved hardly at most or ten to twenty – the betting man’s odds – decided to interview anyone and the bards from Orion kept staring us down and over it rattled and sooner the sound but just as TOGETHER we’d all thought all the same the grounded town-manners left men in the rain and two teams from Hell one of football and grit stood standing by landings and took quite a bit of our coaxing to dance away from the well where the water flowed sweet and as clear as a bell was the sound of some braying by the factory-head who loaded three Chapman’s and two sheep he called ‘dead’ but they turned in a whistle and broadened the hope for Gabriel’s harness and Newton’s fair scope and I leapt from some bed to see ‘what was the matter’ and turned in my bungle to read Schulman Van Atta (he was a guy from Elmira who sold yellow old cars) and Mark Twain’s delusions sounded better than gold "light up that cigar boys and let’s watch the end for no sooner has that come then ended they send and if you’d like that then Reverend Beecher instead can lend you an office to wear unbestowed and twelve slaves all named Dinker are upcoming swift from the last of monkeys and one final twist on some Underground Railroad of raiment and light - Merry Living to All and TO ALL A GOOD NIGHT!" yet they knew he’d demented and lost every sense this Clemens’s frustration just sat on some fence ‘round a pasture of silver and ten-tons of hay which no matter the cost was more than we’d pay so the whistle had started and three greasy men came along from the meadow to whisper the glen but before any spikes or small change were thrown down it was only a missile and some tiny clown hiding hands under garments and touching all men whether holy or profane it left us to mend and they’d opened some book – as I said at the start – but MANAGED TO CLOSE IT before it got dark.
