Just looking for a space where people are to chat. My writing isn't always something that makes me easy to approach, so I log on to talk about it.
KeeperS: You look just right, she glows in the dark. Maybe it's not about a woman yet, but it is about a city.
KeeperS: ...Well the ladies primarily just keep me around to look pretty. Also, there's Denver, still looking pretty.
KeeperS: Fifteen bucks or so, I was developing a Community Emergency Response Team before the crisis and I'd bought it as a part of my response gear for searches and my go bag, before covid was a thing.
KeeperS: Maybe the trees are back to health by now, dunno, let's go see. It's probly better than a broncos game...
KeeperS: 292. Restoration.
There were muses of an urban sprawl
and an urban brawl,
the only thing that counts is a story.
and you get a different bite to you
as you're shaped by the lessons of time.
Emerald skies' fancy flames
licked by a tiger's sense of
courage and respect,
lived in the calm before the storm
or a painting once remembered
by the heart of a callous man.
Pictures weren't easy to come by
and I had a certain appreciation
for an artist,
and a certain respect for
and the way it wears a boot.
Then a re-story, in this time of
ineffectual butterflies and
a drastic need to legitimize the tale.
My caution came up
I remembered the ways in which a war becomes empirical.
Maybe she was also an edgy lass,
Maybe the story was first too hard to tell.
Though, I'd taught myself trust and faith.
the austerity of a sensed medium
the rememberance of someone who was there
Love, had so many words.
She'd teach them, as we'd listen.
Four quarters of a heartbeat or
a barcode valentine.
Iconic, how it was still, and up to her somehow to decide.
KeeperS: The east side of Rabbit Ears Pass after a long overnight haul through a blizzard or two, three passes that same night, my old 2000 accord.
KeeperS: I guess the real question is, why did I let people record my airframes?
Designed em in 2007...
KeeperS: 291. Cadence.
I thought of pristine moments like this one
Each one of them clearly defined by the situation before it
And the consequences afterward.
Each memory boxed up,
But still pristine of itself.
Deviation seemed the wrong word anyway
The way it rolls off the tongue
Half a syllable caught in the apex of time.
Max Weber probably understood
The desire in each of the boxes.
Can I own you, dear, are you mine to keep on a shelf
I can return to you in perfect condition just after the lapse
Of your appreciation of all the achievements
Wrapped up in this…
The reality was as pristine as the bullet from the shots a man fired
with my name on them.
I’d wondered if the devil had come by any other name
With a heart like a butterfly net
Weber’s submission to the difference between wants and needs.
I wonder if she’d written it for him.
Wisdom I’d reflected on
In humble moments from the same row of homes
Between the want in each shiny perfect glimmer
And the gray lump of lead at velocity.
I wondered what one moment was worth
Then I kissed her.
To some, it was maybe the difference between shamrocks and clover.
To me it was the way it always works out,
In the rhythm of time
With our dreams arranged in the cadence of
the distant drummer.