TyrantOfPants

The buzzing of a hundred summer nights Captured in the deep orbs of a lover's eyes Reflective, twin pools of the purest beauty The cool breeze of a hundred springtimes Carried on the sweet lips of a beloved Shifting the stagnant air with it's soft touch But in the passing of a moment... The icy blast of a thousand winters Searing it's cold fire through one's soul Leaving scars that remain even in welcmoed death There are those who believe seasons are fickle They have never been in love

(all dressed in the guise of what is as comfort lives through pleasant gesture)   dangling between our ears and lips, I can hear 1000 bulls in china shops down boulevards as clerks despair at the thought of love.  Matador, lead me into the blanket that elopes to your rapier, let me throw myself- so proud, so assured with your marks across my head, (but all literary devices aside), you are the rise of the ocean as it follows the wind into the horizon, and it seems that here, atop the gasp before the plunge, I have fallen for you.

                 as modern-day gradually reverts--// //            --marvel by miracle--    //                            01110100 01100101 01100011   {br.println()}     /*  --I am left limping in my loin-cloth.  */                          01101000 01101110 01101111 01101100                                                          Ø¿                   //       electricity frizzles in your face...                 ±¿¤¡° Ø ³©¢ ~~~            ~~~   the cellular-phones die;   //            h4x                                       the notebook-computers fry;      +/-                           even the bathroom light--  01101111 011001

A desert road. A body lies on the road.  SAM is sitting on it.  It is his corpse.  He gets up.  Looks at the body, and looks at himself.  He feels himself for fat.  He goes stage LEFT.  As he reaches the end, he stops.  He then goes stage RIGHT.   He stops.  He looks out toward the audience.  He goes upstage.  He goes downstage.  Finally, he glumly takes a seat on his body again and sighs heavily with his chin in both hands, elbows on his knees.  He stares at the ground and takes no notice of his surroundings. Enter CHARON,  stage RIGHT.  He is wearing simple brown robes and a walking staff.  Middle-aged and balding.  He drags his feet, hun

for Frank Leslie "Buster" Redfield May 14, 1925 - Oct. 31, 2004 we call him Papa and he could move mountains with his silence he fathered a family of artists who knew the value of labor the efficiency of expression if it is unclear, rephrase it if it is unusable, remove it if it is imperfect, rework it until it is as much a part of you as a limb he never said this but his life implied it his stone eyes edited lies from our speech before we could speak them his hands held me tight once after I sinned they held me soft when my father translated himself into a mythology I've since ceased believing in his hands were the too