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By craig2

Topics: Poetry Source: AllPoetry Original source

Purple pencils oozing thru the cracks of the hardened sap of solitude. The musty, musky, brick-brown painted patiently on the paperboy’s belt. The graceful, laceful lint hanging from the ceiling in the hammock of the wit which laughs to mock and defy the absurdity of gravity. These are the friends who share my morning Wheaties. These are the comrades I seek when the whistle announces the end of that eight hour thing. Driving home finds a brother on every corner. Packed into my Packard, the journey becomes jelled to the syntax of strobing time and cosmic space….. slipping the key into the front door moat, the transcendence is complete. Harry the Howler has once again nervously transformed himself, has dipped into the pocked crevices of personality and designed himself with his talented purple pencil A mask. A mask with which he is able to enter the wretchedly beautiful realm of other people…. Tomorrow’s another day today.Hesse type stream of consciousness. Written January 14th, 2002 © on Feb 21 2002 05:55 PM PST   0 • 10

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"Purple pencils..."

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Author:craig2

Source:AllPoetry

"Purple pencils..." by craig2

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