Chocolate chips melted on her chin, her heart spills over. Her voice is full of the poetry I will need in greeting old age with love. Her voice has the Christmas colors that never sleep, full of charmed mornings and singing lovebirds and the waltzing she does after school. She is a rose in the wind, a sparkler blessing everything we believe and every mystery in this keepsake. Her cherry, cherry smiles are as lovely as any daughter’s ever, and I want you deeply to reflect and contemplate upon the sacred faith in the future this voyager creates in us.
“I wish this spring a counterpoint to shudder through my memories of the sun,” said Richard Burton as the century closed. “I wish hymns to the twilight yielding unbroken stars.” Richard Burton stands in the ballroom of the Gilded Lion. The face of the planet wheels through December. Like a reckless alchemist, he sees night’s voice pointing north. He puts some thought and reason into seven sudden sharp golden notes that jar the hard shadows, a choral storm between nothingness and clusters of meteor petals, the beryl voice of a Christmas concert.
In a place I write called The Lyon’s Rage, I think of your bright hippie awareness telling me I am thinking nicely of her in fits of desperation. Worlds of beauty. The tree of stars. The sapience of workers. A spicule of Wagner, and in my heart Ysolde there is a small area of discourse that will save everyone some money and light, as if it were her very heart, Nicole’s very heart and tree of stars. Everyone loves her. Everyone loves her river song. It is as if everyone were endeared to lyrics I wrote at The Lyon’s Rage.
The person in the teardrops of diaries, the person who writes government warnings, the person in the woodcut of age-old stars and a hundred years of wind–this person wears jewelry of black meteors tinted with opaque revolutions of the future, this person carries blue islands in sparkling hands and sees behind the shadow of my next syllable; this person has the smoking laughter scholarship. Dancers are clustered in our tresses and flower dreams, and they can taste the smoke from our turret on the lake of melodies, they give eloquence to the morning waltz and water inland wildflowers.
The sex nutcrackers deteriorate a British cubist momentum well into the old age of chlorine Christmas flames. Rebecca, have you a clue why another blue snowstorm rests etched in nature’s jewelled clarinet until its red-rushing pulmonary roses tint the teardrop of one minute of the government in this rink of freedom? But the rink of freedom is burning to death here in this dark thought; and yet, freedom is grace squeezed into the yesterday of a forest crossing, the Laura I touch, the Laura in my fingers, the Laura stapled to my hair, Laura in my daughter’s red lips.
Chandelier startles us with gold, gold as her long, new earrings. The chandelier splits light over the flowers, is a lamp of good and evil. Her hair is dancing over us across the street from 23 Emery under spun-glass and cottonball clouds. Next door, Triple-A Radiator Repair also offers sandblasting and will repair gas tanks. This is an oceanic Thursday, “buoyed on the dense marine,” and here we are, under the “Welcome, Open For Business” sign, where smiles are offered and fresh-squeezed orange juice is available, sunny day, lots of music and Syscoware stainless china presented clean.