In Covington, I smell the honeysuckle smeared across the hills: impenetrable yellow mocking the warblers as they guzzle mealworms…
The throat chaps from an easterly pumping harder now. A march of ants parade around the kettle in one straight line…
A garland of tako tentacles dangles under the canopy of Natsuo’s yatai…
Turn the door knob as if picking ripe figs. Spin the wrist and pull your harvest…
Remember that she’s the most elemental of women—made from the oldest & purest of things—and has spent most of her life trapped beneath layers of sand, with no way to externalize her angst or express her suffocation.
In a drawer at the Bibliothèque Nationale in Paris, Klee’s angel holds his clustered smile in place. His eyes slide sideways, though there’s nothing to see in the dark.
The Navy pilot’s manual did not provide a strategy for this. It happened quickly. Despite that, it unfolds slowly in your mind as you lie paralyzed on your back in some sort of oily gray phlegm-sludge.
The curtain is thin in New Orleans. The beyond closer, the dead nearer. You hear it in the wailing music, you see it in the grey mists off the river, you feel it in cold air radiating off sunbaked bricks.
A haunted Keno screen still flashes inside the bar. Some allege that the landlord’s wife goes in there to play and drink wine, as was her habit when the bar was open.