Moving Toward After

In this Thor's Day mailbox...

Reaching into the deep structure wherein is the storehouse of Chomsky's vision:

The-miracle-of-the-ordinary blobs, swirls, colors, et al, of my friend George's brushed images are, likely, a language complete with syntax unto its own that speaks to an interior construct inside all who see its creation... and perhaps, that of my poems.

As well might be said about any and all creative expressions: The poetry and music of Bob Dylan and the Rolling Stones, the silences generated by the experience of listening to Mahler, or Rachmaninoff, or, or, or... the symphonic nature of a sunrise. The cool embrace of a full autumn moon. The thoughts you are having as you read this, and the song, poem, image you are moved toward after.