Depiction

Affirmative

Who?

They Dream

Everyone Needs A System

Punch a Pineapple

Strong, Strong

Carve

Early Evenings

Animals

The Whole Earth

Bulk Rate

Happy this happy that happy your listing marine feet busted a Monday window. Egg baby charcoal baby igneous baby gone. Rough cut ice cream, tumble down bastards at the wall ate free. This king, this emperor, childless guru with rustic charms and sibilant coordination, his shanty shoes and tundra pals went down. From storm eye fragrant leaves from shadows and bulk rate images dart circles and concert memories. Throats have worlds. Casting about for sheep eyes, our dice hands find a bier of burning nights, naked in water and wind. Grow cold grow without mercy grow 'til globe gets along.

My Tell

Old shack. New shack. New country for trees. I put my finger in my ear and shake a song. The snake shakes, historical mimesis retracts, envelopes us in pink and slothy pleasure clouds. We are all the mice, skittering over the body of a sleeping woman with dark unruly hair, dreaming of a nest. Narrating mindfulness goes something like falling down a hill. All your happy bruises feel connected.

Some Wolfman

Barnacles and the fright they elicit: hardly an issue in real time. Hiking and hiking. The journalistic tendency to document this thought. This time, when we ascend the mountain there will be cake, made by a future us that travelled there to support our struggling past. Rotors, fanblades, the gaze of infants, all have a way of doing the reminding. You and me and the undergrowth gather in untended places: radical distraction. Some wolfman I am, tending the most tender flower, yellow petals trembling in light wind.

Ethics

The horror of time was that beauty made us pull ourselves together, close our eyes and whisk stuff around in the kitchen. The things we said we’d say we said. Then we predicted what came next. The good things fell apart and you became an agent, investigating your illness. You pulled me under and I covered my eyes with my history of other love. Here’s to Saint Honesty, sack of grief. This is the worst. It’s not even a thing. It’s just what I get for trying to ride the dog. There’s some shame in saying I love what I love. Enough to keep me saying it.

Noh Goliath Noh Godiva

To tango. Underneath me. Hipswitch your mania. Gank the fiesta. To arise and go. Two isn’t free. Your mybody elevated. Or corrected. In handblown strands of air, a lake an island. A 24 hour film of us. We spent the weekend watching. Every cue had us quit acting and set down the night. Next to us. Then between us. Memorybuilt darkness. You, me, and the colloid of time. Obligatory poses of Noh-bodies. Some chatter, some music. Some whatever and some more. The feeling is with. Cave memories. A storm. My lumberjack jacket. Your ring.

All Contraries

Collective preening: this culture, this civilization, the “person.” What was it that looked along the seam a few minutes ago? Was it called me? A sense of heaviness and a sense of the round dark all. Some me pervaded, cloistered stick man, campaign of breath and return. Experience is not wholesome, not unifying, unitary or religious. All contraries are unitary in their silliness. Break down to arms and bones.