at the very least, another life can be

eked out--by what goes unnoticed in

any given day.

a thing will always change with the

perceiver, even color is colored.

the sheer overawing & unquantifiable

detail is as matter-of-fact as imagination

itself.

begin & end anywhere you choose--

even though there's no beginning or

ending to the interactiveness.

light rinses her hair on a taxidermic
dove, sat like wooden wavicles on a
shadow planet.
persued by a scented black candle that
smells of unfillable holes.
as a woman prospects a circumference,
tells herself she came for the music--
not the food.
an angel born of mistaken identity,
walks through the blueprint of a garden--
& is told: 'you didn't touch a thing.'
as with the involution of ears, spirals
whistle like rope thru snake skin.
an evil repellent of sorts, or a courtesy
to superstition.

cold *** stews dumped from

tenanted clouds, on spasming tar.

dank breath breathes all over

glitchy raindrops--why i wear

cement shoes to ween off of

puddles.

as a black cat's wet fur effuses

the crunch of fish bones.

its Louis Wain aura hits me with

the engrossment of movies lost

in movies.

we're waiting for confirmation:
something has happened, its movement
already went thru what braces for it.
spun hands over praying mouths--
a finished dark pushed all the way back
& then some, held up to itself.
where a treeline fills in its watchful deepening, as it's pulled downward.
ankle-high smoke comes out with the
audacity of ****, ripped away from
starving fire.
a drawf rolls out of a playing card, to
measure dimensions.
wearing a jester's hat with no bells--
his field of vision gadging his height,
interlocks with curious fear.
tracing around the wickedness that was
recently there.
wind up hares ***** up their ears & fall
on their sides.

the tongue's stethoscopic clacks
in ears, tug at the throat &
against teeth.
not a word.
a rusty lighter's pried scratch--
too thick to spark.
no wind, coincidentally.
still--there is consciousness.
the flight patterns of micro details
touchdown on different but
functional timezones, all in a patch
of pavement.
cars pass & the body remains
unbroken.
the ratio of tinted windows seen
thru, is in simpatico with the end
of a day.
though the edge of the world
plummates along--i hang back &
stroke a jade lion's tail.

the omni-plumage of the

earth's curvature, is sculpted by

a constant unturning.

which sunbeams pass through--

to stall in perforated mountains.

as if taking tissue samples of gods.

he paused at an intersection--with a
pedestrial roundup at his back.
an orange hand's superhuman staving
power instigated a muted version of:
"Waiting for Godot".
then an orange sleight of hand's
arrhythmical numeric funnel, bumped
into a walking lime figure.
he then turned around as if wrested from
consternation, having thoughtfully
weighed the group dynamic of intimate
friendship.
almost like moonwalking with Nintendo One graphics, he paced their unscripted
diaspora.
blockade-wide arms outalking his mouth as he stated: 'you know what...you guys should go without me.'
what followed was the hammering down
on a crosswalk's piano keys--that melted
into a pending desensitization.