The shadow of something – trying to make it out – like a pine cone. buried are parts . they come 6 by 6 in rows . separated by divers knives. they feed the swell, the rivers. diving for river pearls. Tryst pulls out a lean muskets fox eye. made for stone. she washes her teeth rinses with hand cupsful. – leans on the burlap white fabric of the birch. peels seven lines of bark in the shape of a chevron . Hearts warn round her arrows. she pulls them from her knapsacks bell and shoots in a solitary line. Streams – shadows arrow, caterpillar excuse. They know its significancer. Each one in its box – related. Scattered rows 6 by 6 by 7 suns roar. Sculpture mind. Our oars over run. White wash – golden knee piles dirt. rivals and the sonic ash inhale… external intermediate juicey froth legs tights thighs need. Oil. Smoke. Cinder. Cloth. Ash. Cough. Life alively contracted pressure hand grasp – mint handed worship. looks up from Sun – a minstrel. twice mishapen limbs of the deer. blank cover. can contain five embers crying. landed down in the overcoat. to take to the roan. the plastic ash can. turquoise leaning under my fountaining sky. the side winding. Molding and draipsing down the edges of the hive. the hut ovens. the hive winder – sharp edge shape hex. They came back down – measuring our vibrations – making sure – caring for us well enough – some of us fur covered – some snake skin lads insectoid. We remember mostly when we don’t. Our breath is the hint in this net- drive with our palms the structure under bark. She took the pine cone to my ear – slight pain its over.

It was half past – walking too much – breathing, eating salivating, too little. Lucky enough – coin flip, whistle three quarters past. Half-wandering down the sidewalk humming some hymn song – light. hits the temples. hits the shops with cakes and takes a late lunching. there couldn’t be too little to ground down. Dreaming of fritters with fruit paste and purple flock roe neem pies, but settles for quarter pudding. No bones about her. a strange way to dine. a wall painting of a bark scratched eye. a ragged cloth made ribbon. Nine quarter is too much for that string. A blonde looking child is walking toward a statue. I see through the eye. It’s twisted head imploding into a seam. lucidly willing a fantastical dream. there i can’t drown in the pink spool. pulling into the sky. Antares and Gliese 157 are the blonde twins. Menacing morose they stick a fork in mine. laughter spills in through the sink. draped in cotton dressing. drowning out the suds.

“She always had a knack for hammering small earrings.”

“You know that’s not the truth.”

There was also a quickness about her – I remember it – smelled as trouble does. Sud favorite.

“Whenever I arise my little ghost gloves come and walk under my shoes pollish.”

It wasn’t – talking to much – seething, sheets of rain soaked busk boys. I was lucky enough to know at least one of my little shrimps.

“He always argues with himself about the wimps.”

More portuguiser please. For the children at the wax house never are clean.

Thirty winding – three winding – thirty twisted rock – chewing clove. saturated natural grass rocks irish fog. Humming sounds – echos calling. People located scattered in the hills – I can’t see them, but they call to one another – back and forth – like birds – loud humming sounds… ether pale canary sounds filtered through their eyes. listening through the phone wind. to the ice they could hear shards piercing the streams as glass. wandered the banks for the dove. for sprigs of the clove. wine gum collected in the buckets dark amber pools of sap. rearranging to the fall of the red hour. sticks stuck and slicing into the fallen ground. the two were walking there. in the place where secret keys move. golden sweet and in sleep. I have one moment in my eyes mindedly – crowns, ash covered bodies in righteous pink ritual – I see through the hills – clear as a whisp. They see me and call in together – my body falls away – engolded sweet and wake water take breathing scream. Big smile now. Looking down, locking singing – I remember this knot. Just there in the juniper where the mind makes _spaces____. sparks. sparkling ahead. crawling forward and down. the face of seama sighing. taking their bridled blows to the edges. where they dried white skins tan. for the sea cake calling a brilliant distance. Ocean air water droplet spire. Thirty bodies – each by its idol – each singing – hum when is this – flattening the land with their oscillations. Now aware, a rock presents itself to me and says – “offer” – I twist him with my will and shed my hammer, string, skin.

time was…. or time… time wasn’t  – sand, peach soda, the capital letter G…

G for georgia land of fire lost and once a memo mori of the devi .. we took time there to gather some lucid grey, stone flint rock .. wandered to the shed where there was a brightly lit madonna jesus in robes.  his throne was a hemaprodites body blood.  a bathtub of liquerish gin.  a Pint of cream-sorrow.  a blasting machine like a match fire.  light poured in through tea fear in the floor, a sticking stain, a door… busted through with crackling moray eel wings – I set aflame my own spirits past looking backwards.  winged dire deer wire/dear gl ass, renowned for now to never know again the flamenco desert.

K for killing time. rolling flaps of leaf dwelling lime. light sphere, catch one drop, left to crack through the bubble black rowing. I forget my name now – aflame again writhing.  to the spire of spirits.  left dead through seer haunting. Qali merciless their sired singing shred the black swamp hour.  bubble up a terrible muck to stir the stone one.  with an amber glass rod.  a name called god.  a tailored suit for a sack.  felt nothing and bit off a chunk.  a fear  infernal -dust – we know not the flowering subtle memories of our kindred – drying the vegitables as an offering or welt – welling up – looking back again and saying nothing this time not all gone – Qali-alia hers.

time was… or time…time wasn’t – never wanted to be, sanded tree, bleach rowing boat, the capital letter S.

S for sanctuary. G for godby K for cliche and N for nest with breakfast.

-GK