Byline: Dance of the Cobras

Buford Youthward

Birds sing, man interprets.

Nature provides the model for our knowledge. We gaze at trees, see their branches, their organization in their leaves, the fractals found in snowflakes and ocean waves, the shimmering layers of oil tinged water.

The information contained in your images is the best kind of art history. I surf upon the midnight cool, the dark wild, the blue unknown, seek an evil noir and a lavender lust pining for plumes of iridescence in a vinegar wash washing down cocktail nuts with a cool Chianti. I graduate from peanut butter and jelly and move on to black coffee, green tea and red wine.

Checking my luggage at dysfunction junction I hold court and place all critics on trial with their gimmicks. I hear a voice transcend artifice and watch my love grow to hate by showing hate to all that I love.

Searching for something new or some nuance in something old I find something dirty, pretty and drunk in the city. She makes my knees shake but can't control my mind.

Striving to be no great thinker rather a great collector of thought, I check my checkbook and composure knowing nothing is as expensive as a free market. The great capitalist continues to write in lower case.

I distill great oil spills for a thrill and shill my will on a hill where men drill and drill until they get their fill then on holiday weekends place their meat on the grill.

We memorialize the end of May finding June so soon, refuse an inward defeat and challenge the notion that preoccupation with responsibility to oneself can be irresponsible.

Bottom purveyors do the dance of cobras in slick oil gulf waters then piss on a nation already pissed from past sins, shifting masks and abstract shadows. Don't be mad at me because your invented gods disappoint you. The disturbance in the rhythm isn't my fault.

Misinterpreting the prophets who howl in the wilderness, while birds chirp, is your hang up not mine.

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