A little purpose, a little play; the purpose is play, the play, purpose; until, finally, play is all there is; except it’s not final, until purpose has its say, which, of course, is not its way unless it’s in the mood; nonsense, true; without glue, without you, there would be no purpose anyway, even if I play so myself — which I do, I do, I do. . [ 1792 […]
Lean streets, mean streets, butterfly silk, bright clouds, ripe clouds, strawberry milk, sunfire, gunfire, falling, calling, pain, rain, drain, stain, religion, pigeon, mutter, gutter, bible, belt. . [ 1791 ]
If summer is a dry-grass smell and fall is smoke, winter is a clear-glass bell and spring is a rhyme alive in your throat. . [ 1790 ]
Of course you’re the center of the universe. You’re also a flower. A river. A plum. Bright in her hair. Adrift on the water. Secure in her fingers. Warm in her palm. What else to declare? It’s the same the other way around. . [ 1789 ]
There’s a ghost in the neighborhood, a skinny stray cat wailing like a human; isn’t it interesting that you know what I mean? . [ 1788 ]
the last thing you are is what you think you are; the first thing is . [ 1787 ]
Ancient man is in me. I see his starry night. I hear him call. Feel him shiver. Wait for light. He gathers food. Seeks a hand to touch. Looks out from the precipice. Dreams his waking dream. A few ripe berries. Finger stains. Computer keys. . [ 1786 ]
The flag says, I am separate. The bomb says, I am indiscriminate. The man says, I am brave and free. The child says, Woe is me. . [ 1785 ]
And then, one day, the setting moon was so bright and full, we really did change; but that was long ago — an hour or so, maybe less, maybe more. . [ 1784 ]
Here are the flowers. Where are the bees? Here are the trees. Where are the leaves? Here are the people. Smoke on the breeze. . [ 1783 ]
William Michaelian 