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A Fireside Rambling, Said To the Wing of an Airplane
Mithrandir

In Denver, rain on the wing made us lazy in our study of the world, whose holy things are hidden by the psyche's night.  In repose (restless as vapors) we drew in the myriad shades of the cerebral palate, whose colors stain and dye the world such that the brown drabness of assumption should not permeate our minds, that all life be dressed in a sweet, discerning motley.
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This we know not from study, but as if we were born again, as in the communal womb of language, conscious of/careful with our mother's sainted name--SOPHIA--from whom apes and gods alike suckle vice, virtue, drama, sleep, and wanting.
 2
 
 
Open thy ears, oh children of the lands below, and drink deep thy promised starwine.
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27 Mar 07


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