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He had the wind in his pocket and some old tunes on his shoulder while under his arm was an unraveling bag of wistful fragrances. Cinnamon snatchings graced his gait, and the waders he wore wrote floppings along the ruts as he slowly strode to the east mouth and the river rubbed against his leg with static passings of wit. Whether man's capacity for insanity makes him superior to the other forms of life and lingering, trying to make a dent in the planetary circle and relieve some of the trials that have been twisted to songs of lolling lilting lament. Sharp distance solving tribunals of redmonging craft while wavers winsomely wait and spin to the halting rhythm of an unsure civilization. The grabbers will be gone, and he will walk on to another valley and another circumstance, but the result will be the same: the flies will burn their blue metallic buzz around our woks and some will come to praise the crooning catapult allure that brings some to chance flying and others to swoon while the rumblings of the number wars build fright into each suffering and small pricks in the ceiling let in lights of redeeming and the roar of a zonophone's reply lackadaisical alliteration pries into the weeping groper's dreams of worth and might, but could be would be a word for all seasons, but it is not, and we still don't see. Some are still screaming, and some still care, but they are still there. He had passed through a wheat field whose Midas fantasy brought him to think of days when there was nothing but fulfillment reining the storm of broken doubts and spider paranausea, but children and those who haven't set yet were the ones who saved his collection of decayed form in a shop on the eleventh street. He escaped in the dark of a renewal on the eve of a sigh and all the crossings that he passed were erased when he went again. Prosaic whittlings in redundancy of forlorn bedragglements on the palisades of the final whim in the graffiti master's home which rests on the side of a hill where the rabbits hole and the shingles are splitting, and no one's put out the trash tonight, but there is a good show on channel one with the big eye and an edsullivan gleam to make your teeth wider and your steps shorter, but he has walked for days now, and his coat is still wet from sleeping in a pear tree's snuggle when the dew found him and made mischief in the dimming dawn, but he's whistling one that his father taught him when he caught him with hairy hands on a forbidden spoon when he worked nights for IT&T, and the smoky yellow city haze tickled his throat and told him to watch out because the pigeons were planning something for the next summer. He lingered upstream near the rapids an ate a lunch of bright pieces of glass and colors that he had grown, but somebody thought that he had found them before he left, but that couldn't be right and neither could the airplane, but two of them made one, so where is the conclusion? I didn't ask him where he was going, and he didn't ask the direction, but he may have known my sister's dresses on the line meant for him to dance in the sod, but when we're all bojangles the breezings cannot be accommodated by a few loose wishes for forgiveness and nothing can be understood when there is moss all over each tree.
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