and so of ideas, spatial reality, badly painted angles and broken xylophones. i got myself tangled up in a wire woven head with gaps too small but for catching little bits of sullen air. come in, i say- we will sweep the floor with a devils claw broom in myopic fits of concern while wearing clothing stolen from the dead. i keep the memories in that corner, damp! for mildew hopes to chew them up so they no longer will rear up and remind me of the pleasant smell of men when they wake.

the gift of sky so dense and deep as to transform the mortal arm into super-stretchy-plastic-girl and so i reach up to wave a hand through candy clouds and return those sticky fingers to a hungry mouth..

for i would seek to depurate the monkey mind and soar like a reversed image of a black bird rising from a pool of limpid white water. piercing the surface, like malleable skin to allow that torrent of words out, shattered drops to fall on a parched by silence tongue. i'm waiting. feeble. choking.

S.M.C., loved one in the barn so long ago - forgive me finally. please for i dream of you often. tonight i was broken again, had maliciously punctured a hole in your mechanics package and had watched the stuffing soar high as a plastic clear fountain. i leaned back on rough concrete, scuffed elbows and felt your merciful hand alight in a golden strand of my hair and the world was bright but for a moment and television played from a small radio and your guitar spoke well in your hands and on the hill, the wolf was set free and our collected filthy addictions went with her..i dream of you so often. the one so equal to me in insanity, strength of conviction pointed in a wrong direction..break out. swell into the sea.