Botero's ballooning

figurations parade

into Giacometti's studio.

greeted by emaciations

that seem cast in disheveled

breadlines.

as with a vomitus

start from bed--

the melted voices of

the mind moonlighting

the wee hour of a body.

sectioned off from what

retired it--so countercurrents

of alarm may impress

something that has happened.

though not yet.

ruling planets cut thru

the screen of midday's midnight--

juggernauts with blowing foghorns.

super-schizoid percolations of color...

the earth herself posing as a spinning

sitter, whose turns are fed to the

paralytic lucidities of turns that will be.

yet there's no turning to be had, when she

hatches.

the screen suddenly seals--midnight's

midday...& thru the screen's holes

serpentine wavicles enter the potentia

of billions of breathers.

sallow outer shells of lamplight

shiver fragile lines of light--

to the wall.

hardly palatable to the clam juice

residuals of late light, airbrushed

by a rain even more coy than a

fine mist.

as afterbirth-roots are fleshed out

by a chill, insisting on leaping

backward more than a few weeks.

twelve pointed hats

lower over the silver pan

of her High North reclusion.

set down.

she stir fries the vegetative

chants of a clockwork coven.

an aroma fills the forest...

the unachievable balance between

decay & delectability.

the ground/sidewalks/streets

are usually checkered fluctuations

that accelerate into vortical pits.

then are spit out.

as if not being where one is--

consequentially proceeding toward:

having not been.

yet, as it seems currently...the weight

of the entire world settles, & an

existential foothold shoots blocked

information thru the crown.