Articles

Forever blossoming, the wind bristles leaves of intent shaking the sky. Stagnation set in the soil leaks all around the forest until the trees freeze into the sand ready to harden in the sun. Lap it all up sandman; the ice age is coming; get on your ships and glide. Gravitation persuades and obey. Come closer. Try again. The soil stinks and is rotting. Fingerdeep into the earth and feeling the decay the hand closes. Dragging calloused palms across brittle tree bark the skin falls off in the wake piling with the rest of the sediment underfoot (tender feed for the organisms of disintegration). One. Two. Three. Four. Five. And some blood falls too. Open up the wound; let it breathe in the soggy air. Hollow trunk scared inside of itself. There must be some insect shells laying in the dirt. The sap covered fur of a small beast strewn. Piece full peace persists by bits into the undergrowth. Untrodden and forgotten, kept going; yellower in the sunset. Saws and tries keep dying unannounced, and tension dissolves like a rubber band. Open your goddamn palm! Antithesis. And climax. Wretched snow. Wet hands drag trails in the dust. Trained for incense. Sliced thin for wider distribution and errors. The light shines in cylinders hinting at beauty. And distressed by the possibilities of punctuation. Intent. And scrawny runt.



TWENTY-THREE FEBRUARY TWO-THOUSAND-TWELVE