solid renderings vaporize.

potentialities abort themselves sometimes.  As is the way of it.

thus the shiny blade of grass grows downward somewhat.

a rainy Sunday here.

my heart’s satisfied here.
deep in the dungeon of academic content.
below the pitter pattering of mankind’s feet.
i hear the clash bang of their steps in my head.
out of the attic me they’ll never come to try to find.
and yet fear of what never will happen sustains itself.

I’m the flashlight wanderer.
Sideline saunterer.
spacelight splaunterer.

To splaunter is to splashingly saunter thru air as if it were water.

And then i’ve never heard of friends i’ve never had.
And when lovers hide their love.
Hate becomes a subterranean ever-present thing with no name.
Death becomes the quintessential tragi-comic no-winner game.

To go below, to get behind, to find a way to exist backwards.
as if down were the proper way for grass to grow.
as if dark were the brightest the sun could glow.

The faces of strangers and acquaintances meld into one.
divinity and hostility are no longer twain.

trinities of demons are deities of no short length.
that’s when the crow caws.
that’s when the snake sneaks.
that’s when the snail crawls.
that’s when the maggots leak.

and when the sun shines its darkest brightness.

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~ by rsak on November 11, 2006.