#6

The metaphorical storm hit within the shrouded room below.

In places the air, with flattering success, was darkened by showers of lobster patties.

Death came to him – an Extraction, an iron-sheathed adobe building, an evil smelling courtyard, painted balconies hung with wind bells rendering the mundane heroic.

On our way we passed one or two ruins, and from gaudy America of Market street deep silence reigned everywhere. She promised her godmother she would not fail.

Instead of being so heavy, she said “No, I have not done anything at all.”  The human face, in the case of nudity versus nakedness, is born of the moon and not the sun.

(Deadpan humor of the wall, dirty dust devil and unsalable idols.)

My heart is still more wild than thine, walking around exploding. 

Thunderbird in prow of canoe spreads wings when the dead man rose up and cried out, “Fidelity of nature! Water spirits! Young Pan!”

“It’s still a dreadful time,” I said.

This surrealistic poetry is created by skipping amongst the source material, choosing phrases, sentences and images at random.

Photographers of the Frontier West

52 Weeks of Conscious Contact

America and the Daguerreotype

The Blue Fairy Book