the literary giant that lurkes isn't always nor should it ever become the building of a cabin where the voice of god comes calling in all it's wonderous forms to bring YOU the spiritual awakenings of the man behind the machine.
Nor should it be choked by the words of colorful characters beckoned from the dreams of women longing for there white knight to come forth from the american night and bite into them with all the longing and desire that was lost to them in this eternal daytime slumber.
the artist that paints with the colors that spill forth, to birth life upon the canvass as they fill in the color of the sun; can you feel its orange and yellow rays warm your skin?
words that bound from the page to dive deep within the brain to color the rays of the sun and let you see it in all its glory,
do you feel now
the warmth as it bears down in all it's opressiveness upon your breast filling your lungs with the heat of day
can you hear it now
the buzzing buzz of the cicada bugs that fill the tree tops.
can you see
periods in the wrong place if there at all and sentences choked by commas as to bring to life one long rolling thought that carries you away in the heat of the day.
NOW do you feel
the release of the line that rips through the pages in one long non-capitalized sentence to paint to life all the colors of the day.