The sounds of loud exuberance changes as the eastern gulf stream tastes of hemmingway’s fried eggs: the fog evaporates into a crystal clear of now, a touch of Canadian cool that enters the dinner, gripping tired bones yet to be buried, contrasted with the warmness of grub. The anticipated escape of the fog was a weatherman prediction during a harvest moon: the harvest is the brightest moon of the autumn sky that used to allow Danish farmers to reap crops and prepare to trade for sugar cane and spice under the protection of the British. Prosperity beneath asphalt is cobblestone erosions of persons that once walked within this city of orgies. The imagined taste of rum lingers, but the air needs coffee to be perceived; the sun light has yet to touch the sky, but actions of morning preparations begin to erupt from truck wheel slamming within pot holes that show the cobblestones.
There are people sitting: some reading papers, servers tired stare at rectangle check book, as the sound of clinking forks upon porcelain becomes satiation. Food has many properties bringing persons together who never would consider sitting across from one another if it wasn’t for food and drink: powerful and full of taste. A man with a newspaper again looks. The man of the crowd is more polite in the descriptions of the persons these days.
There are poets who walk on houston street and experience before they write: an imagined audience enters the surveillanced mind of the man of the crowd.
there is a loudening music that rips forward as day begins: a jazz mixed cacaphonus with opera: singing drunken poets yell into the air for the helicopters above to hear: your noise will not silence the city. Helicopters simply fly with abadoned persons within floating. More trucks move below and the nightlight haze of fog become a crystal image on the camera, it is best to take pictures of the river from the cloisters today.
The sounds of loud exuberance changes as the eastern gulf stream tastes of hemmingway’s fried eggs: the fog evaporates into a crystal clear of now, a touch of Canadian cool that enters the dinner, gripping tired bones yet to be buried, contrasted with the warmness of grub. The anticipated escape of the fog was a weatherman prediction during a harvest moon: the harvest is the brightest moon of the autumn sky that used to allow Danish farmers to reap crops and prepare to trade for sugar cane and spice under the protection of the British. Prosperity beneath asphalt is cobblestone erosions of persons that once walked within this city of orgies. The imagined taste of rum lingers, but the air needs coffee to be perceived; the sun light has yet to touch the sky, but actions of morning preparations begin to erupt from truck wheel slamming within pot holes that show the cobblestones.
There are people sitting: some reading papers, servers tired stare at rectangle check book, as the sound of clinking forks upon porcelain becomes satiation. Food has many properties bringing persons together who never would consider sitting across from one another if it wasn’t for food and drink: powerful and full of taste. A man with a newspaper again looks. The man of the crowd is more polite in the descriptions of the persons these days.
There are poets who walk on houston street and experience before they write: an imagined audience enters the surveillanced mind of the man of the crowd.
there is a loudening music that rips forward as day begins: a jazz mixed cacaphonus with opera: singing drunken poets yell into the air for the helicopters above to hear: your noise will not silence the city. Helicopters simply fly with abadoned persons within floating. More trucks move below and the nightlight haze of fog become a crystal image on the camera, it is best to take pictures of the river from the cloisters today.
Posted by: stefanos | October 03, 2004 at 07:22 AM