The most unlikely stuff spills out, becoming a salt marsh --
Out here are – myriad creatures. I suppose, but the mystery is why? Just to live by what is known? This backyard fence is an illusion caught in the act. Skin, the largest organ, is another.
Sufferers of boredom, suck your thumb. Living is the ability to float anywhere. I will write a book about it which will bore the bored, if not me. Maybe it will spring a flock of prisoners for a vacation to celebrate egrets at the houseboat on the lake.
I guess most everyone has, at least once, gone down to the sea. To smell it, smell the salt. Surely it is one world.
Why hobble the imagination with primitive UFOs, the victorious past, a hot taco. Though taco sauce is definitely worthy of appreciation, complete attention. Olfactory nerve connected to the history nerve connected to the telepathic zing! fit for the editorial sawhorse at The New Yorker. But hey, it's a free country is it not?
So there is nothing much to learn here that will make anyone smarter, more conversational, or rich. Especially rich. Most of the world, it seems, is primarily interested in getting stuff. Not this monologue on a houseboat, and yet . . .
why does anyone get bored? It is known, for instance, that marsh gas at night burns eerie blue and, I suppose, might give rise to UFOs. But who knows? It just spills out, in no particular order . . . . . .
0 ~ 0
autumn midnight sun
in every dewdrop glowing
a bird sings at dawn
