Saturday, December 5, 2009
"How deep our sleep, under the starry composite. Only the unwinding yarn of our exhausted fire, scribbles itself against the dark cluttered backdrop."
"So big a lake, after being confined to the hallways of the Penobscot, you feel and hear; rising and cowering tides."
"Paddling open wind swept lakes -keeps shores at a distance and arms strong."
"No matter how glorious the river is, rushing beside this campfire I enjoy alone among the quiet; it is meant to be shared!
bivouacked in moonlight and sound so that escaping the wheeze of shore in a scattered lace written out along the beach you can read you, in a scribbled, tide-abandoned tongue, the hours waiting and smelling themselves.
the linoleum reflecting cheap 70’s blue sky, the covers of magazines trickling through the limbs of downed trees, newsprint smoldering above poorly enunciated fires and books, books stack, leaning and reaching towards the sun, telling no stories, inventing no truths about eddy foam swirling, panting after crawling through the lungs of wheezing channels and roads that swell and slosh against the creek of camp, searching the cracking and aging, the pale and smooth bed its flesh sweats against.