Counting Chocolate Crates [AKA] {SUBMARINERESPONSE}

Crossing beams streams time into focus (rack pull) creep out pixels bleed too much run to brown glow any way. Harold the face felt like felt fleeting, pelt waste pulled over the top too, canned glue used without grace, christened against the lake (moon face fading), frequent the stops, reach tops ended and planned placed parental tracks into the dirt (press hard) child called often in the throat. Reach outward bound and caressed. Silent lips press against charred carbon (dust sprinkled) smeared into flesh (pressed) smirking twilit candle eyes (double dipped in positive). Play onwards in the sands rolled to green, crank sounds plentiful; dance without fragrance. And instructive tentative (destruction glistened). Listen to the swallow, lumps (pressing) strained. Rigid mortuary colden sun: emboldened folds (empty bottle) felt firm. Smooth out the iron and take the harder port. Pretending patience for beauty (bent on bending) betraying indentures denting renders dance daily on fiercer fibers than weaved for skin.


NINETEEN APRIL TWO-THOUSAND-TWELVE

Candle canned old:

Capitulated pigeons press heaving breasts against the fryer, deeper and deeper into the sightline held captive by retreat. Dancing in the streets strays far from the other side, taken down and combined. Seeps through the water works, works water through the harder stone first, second known element all sown in straw, rich saws cut less trees planted deep, still steeping for keeps. Streets paved themselves without healing directions, cantor crammed cans is the only place home. Blue bottles contained only smoke, broke in the gut, bled soot, stooped too low, and got caught. Hands off. Tandem sights rang twice, opened light holes in the floor. Let in the roof. Let out the flood. Can't keep it entombed for the life of me. Chilled on ice dipped in visions; sweaters laced with cantaloupe, pressed firm against the felt, spilt: soft fuzzy juice down your throat. Split sideways from the direction one of us was facing. No contest. The handle gripped the hand old man hands handed over the sands (many grains grown small with time, broken down soft glass) shattered like neighbors in the night, still young with all omissions.


THREE APRIL TWO-THOUSAND-TWELVE