• • •

crate 12, under crate 11

such specific hands that the onion made him sad, so he cried.

his tears were saved and studied carefully by scientists for centuries helping us discover that our veins marble our innards bleeding into ourselves all the time!

a meager moment,

frail wavering edges of an indistinct form . . .

fresh wind lifts dust over a worn threshold

damp tingly particle smells

exploding through eagerly calculating stability.

fade crisply through

delicate shaky meadow, drifts

rusty-looking memory

few days ago whisper

turned with quiet blossoms

gusts blew in his arms

a new bright whisper ` * ❊

pillar schema rounded out over in back of a coffee smell lingering. A cream-colored schema. Brown glass items arranged carefully, washed out faded thinning until shreds disperse to dust.

East Texas gutter sparkled bright in the sun

That house was painted white now.

hotel bar carpet

watered by selves

around whose wrists will radio waves flutter?

streets spring

background 7-Eleven blooms a brightness
felt through slight roseate
walls unearthly room

obuled mrandelphunous rond vargonia

CHAPTER II : THE OLD HAND REDISCOVERED!

upspring your apron-like handlebars in glass hotels in cloistered suburbs,

an old man with his dead soft hands in an old brown jacket silent in his deadness,

but chalk only smiles and spills all directions until my only undercoat night street,

with rustling leaves in an empty breezy alley,

with the quiet gentleman’s decaying old person face out in the open,

a soft stuffy interior, carpet always freshly vacuumed.

he would talk about it . . .

his rough carpet hands on beige plastic buttons,

dressing down lost cakes of detritus,

only fastened to his face an old clock…

feeling one's own clockface is his hand.

My old leg was just inside itself. Within what river was each cradle selved? Around whose wrists will radio waves flutter? Is the only key the least appealing? Wh42!

A fresh unearthed toxin blowing down into a cornstalk haze under a blurry firmament. Bread made by cloud hands baked by cloud breath

Not inside itself my arm peels over outside into a fresh sea of half old images. Feeling like wet bread I slurp a thick, bready breath and feel myself grow older and flop forward into a bucket of slop.