The Glistening of Formica Memories

The Glistening of Formica Memories Stepping on wet lateral stones, at the Source of the Bicuspid, three timeless tree-girls, dressed in Colorado feathers, urged on to fly, as far as the harbinger’s voice, reverberating from the source and onward to eternity’s margins, assume the mad ascendancies to the highest peak, the farthest city; their three steeped voices slicing the formica memories into shards with bitter fingers. The glistening call, of that farthest city, wallows in the mirage of seeming imaginations, of fluid want with foreshadowing remnants of lateral intricacies, of standard practices in the unseen interludes; why is it when the wind blows from the source we can listen, but not hear? Has memory succumbed to the vacuum of time and warp? On which wetted lateral stones does source-wind lay out the patterned template? But now the feathers amerce the wind’s seasoned harbingers, plying the stars to find their elàn amidst the mirages, urged on to fly, ascending lofty peaks, beckoned by eternity’s margins, three arbored fems, imagination becoming flesh, stars and stones merging, as timeless as formica; their fleshly lateral stones finding the Source of the Bicuspid.