Was sitting around this weekend (in 100° heat and with a load of hot restlessness far exceeding the thermometer's reading). So I workshopped a few short scribblings I'd made shortly ago, to pass the time. As always happens, it GREW considerably, those sentences. Into this *thing*. It ain't great which gives it some power, I guess, and even a little bit of gumption.  And I know, for myself, that writing, any writing, doesn't really need read to be valid. But I thought I'd toss it up here, anyway.

The sunrise was cut in the middle by pilings
of rocks and of magic. And of lightning and grace.
Ah, such wizardry, really ... a world washed with whipstalls.
The words in rough heaps that explained all the questions.
The questions unanswered (despite all the words), the monoliths standing there,
Prompting more. Telling less.
The mountains were fireworks, grounded by tunnels.
The tunnels were endless, buried 'neath stone.
It was all so worthwhile, willful and right.
Then? My mountains were dreams boldly solid. And large.
And the peaks were as high as I placed them, and waited.
But now? As I look there? My mountains are not ...

The twilight was sliced in its center by shadows
Of clocks and of scrapbooks. And of benchmarks and wile.

Ah, such traveling, truly ... a map marked with March hares.
The mantra's faint noises that sound like jazz midnights.
The jazz bending wildly (despite being quiet), the saxophone resting there,
Pearl buttons. Cheap wood.
The mountains are smoky, all whiskey and Bird.
The birds flying elsewhere, going down fast.
It is morning and moonfire. Worthy and tight.
There? My mountains were riffs near a bayou. With echoes.
And the tempo was right with the skyline, so jagged!
But here? Where it's silent? My mountains are not ...