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Horrid tin on wet paper. Coastal fragments of an empire twilight. Nonsense to corners in a deck along the warped cabin. Would you be silent for a moment? Afraid it seems, all these foul rodents. Their intrusion delights the pit of my heart. Tricky, a chaotic wide, flying, hammering scent of rubber. I can’t ask any witch to find me soul. Cabbage, all over the beach in this sort of whispering crash. Anyone would think the same thing. Aghast in some sort of mask and wish of a barrier to free the wild measure. No one could find you. I wanted to ask. Greatly, the huge perish of blue peril. All the mazes of fire and heaving, to the rot of long shadows. If such swill and tormented passion, is the gut of a great polar animal, nonsensical I say, nonsense. Powerful the tiny wings of the anchored pink flash and flit, stabbing the antagonistic mushroom. The jetty seems to be sleeping and under sun or star, a cool sky where spinach is guessing the paper and stones to every gap pf quartz in the sandiness wave. I love a man, in his grinning tour and reel of all the moons under the deck. And the woman favors the glide under the cracked wood in the bannister. Wicker furniture in a tiny etch to sum up the fish when its gone in the eave of the miles. I love your frosty blonde hair cut, without scissors, it lands fine but no lease dreams lovely where you sat. And the crowds suppose where I am. Do you? Lanterns, without killing bugs, in the half dark of my own youth. The computer likes staring at my less in the glass jar filled with rubber bands and paper clips. As I wander. Mesmerized by the shoes, looking at the socks, kissing my own wounds, labeling every second as the scream in a blind story. Where are they, down in the camp, assuming the streets of a big rising light, down in the doors of a pavement, and they always ask where I am. Lured by the moss, crickets, boxes and bottles, around the time of a slick and nude froth, the barking dog comes in song, along my back and toward the day. So filled with the rich and famous, the barrel of the trash in the set of my sight, down to sleep in a world of no wonder. Only in one I said, only one. A chisel is in the basket of the tin can of the lead, of the marksman, of the seat of satin in that old mall. Every fraction of the tear, in the maple of a roof bird, the Pegasus, the pterodactyl, the soon to be shining, moose of the silver aching in a crypt of peeling fruit. In the cooler, I’m assuming. Like any one in the tiny tip of ink, Karl, in a row of Ruth and Ansel, handling all the capriciousness of an illegal deli sandwich. Cross could mean the lord. Could mean or make a street arbitrary. Sweets, candy in a small gift shop in a town of hotels. Telling myself, there are no boxes, the mail, of a wielding bursts of here to a white swan to the carry ribbon whore to stork. He will open the box, by the mail, to the star to the gaggle of any frosty wad. And I will be alone, in the confidence of my performance. The veil in smoke, closing the snap of my screen. All she does in snap. I ask how long she’s been a cricket.
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