Kirsten Adam September 20, 2011

LE BONHEUR DE VIVRE A sentient vessel in the silence rings a dissonant sentinel. The song is a sewing thing that cries out for preemptive convalescence. It is whole in its parts and dutifully stitches its sleeves. Stretched and stitched. Stretched to its britches, bound to the yolks and hitches, bound to the misters and misses. Pinks punish yellows, yelling fierce rosy phrases. Coming down roses, pillars come tumbling. Come tumbling down roses up pillars down noses. Pillars that are mumbling into rumbling piles of meaning are moaning for strength, moaning for foundations that are floating ephemeral. Mending circles steeply slurp, where green goose-down quilting lurks. Lonely fountains break the squares, shake the floats stream down the air. Permanence, please. The steadfast hurting of the soups and suits and shirking of responsible shirts and frivolous fruits. We are heavy with finding. We are heavy with fading. We are ready to be heavy. Absent collars, prescient dark, omnipresence binds to rocks. Tailing treetops enamored. Armed with subtle pillows armed with still-life sunsets. Landing in the swell, the hungry swell, the pushing bulging grunging abundance of thoughtful, lemony grudges. Lemony eyebrows, come to think of it. In amorphous empathy we define where definite arms dream. We define the definite end, the definite ledge. We swim through the thinking sludge. We leap above the hesitant mud. At the reds end dreams are dyed colors but do not bleed, dying dreams. Perhaps life is like a circular piece of plastic perhaps. Like grooves and dents, perhaps its dives are the dings that ring with the resonant joy perhaps they are finding the found ringing the round singing the sound. Grinding what was ground. The endless grind of the surefooted ground.