Tuesday, March 27, 2012

Heading up and Over

Ron Koppelberger
Heading Up and Over
In realms of star shine and vistas of bidden suns, he thought as he rocked back and forth on the wooden porch swing. The pleasure of the evening breeze and wafting tobacco plumes were at the heart of his imagination, the ethereal dreams of an October rush, a June bug dance of buzzing tempest and firefly luminescence.
Bill Culver traced the clouds in indigo and moon glow, the moon in glowing wonder, green cheese and grinning ghosts of ancient elders in glorious transcendence above and within the grasp and breaths of dreamers and aspiring agents in passage.
Bill inhaled in a puff of misty tendrilled smoke; the taste of Rhy whiskey tinged his lips and foresight prevailed as he empowered the heavens, “Take me to distant realms of unerring adventure, to lands and love unequaled in the ways of elder blessing!” he whispered in an exhalation of smoke and rare whiskey breath. The unalterable sky revolved above Bill and time remained an uneasy reminder of what had come to be of what had transpired in the life of an aging bond, a bond with living love and bare lamentable mistakes.
“If only for a moment to return to the attentions of my sweet love, the affair in velvet, sure absolutes, a kiss in a moment of magnificent betrothal.” he said to the stars as he adjusted the tan and brown shawl in his lap. “If only for an instant, romantic, removed from the sorrows of desolation and empty waiting ages of turn.” he thought.
The sky glimmered in moon glow essence and Bill growled from deep within. The stars winked and shimmered in rainbow reds, greens and blue candent knowledge. Bill imagined the stars and stripes in tranquil moon dust, a forever adorned by the flag and astronauts dune buggies. Bill growled again and in furry wolf like ease he imagined the Sea of Tranquility and freewheeling drives through dusty valleys and mountain hills, above and beyond, he howled and the arthritic bones went from brittle to stone, wrinkles to babies bottom, youthful, taunt expressions of youthful ascension. Wolves in the fabric of moonshine and ambiance.
Bill padded across the porch and into the shadows of a sylvan wild. Born for passions of passage he moved forward to the fresh will of bidden moons and unbidden existence, up and over the hill to planes of whispering wash and twilight hunts, loves and haunts brought forth unto the exploration of man and beast, adventure and eternity in amber fields of passionate promise.

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