Surely it can’t all be cast to the tan lines. The sun—our cicerone across this celestial plane, casting her silhouettes upon skin shapes etch-a-sketching that which we outfit ourselves with— Surely. That can’t be it. Because I see him
At the end of it all rests the trees. Time stands just as requested in the company of pines. My steps are holy circles, hewn deep and echoing; I listen as my ten-thousandfold world system shivers like a wheel barrow child barreling down a grassy slope, arms stowed against chest. Bullets rain dully, as dumb as porcelain and half so strong.
I am the mountain against the shattered panes of glass; dynamic quests for focus leaving a viewer head-tilted more confused than ever. Dawn mist lit amber saffron, sweeping streaming willowing between fern slopes. Still slopes. As still as possible.
Dance dark against the moonlight shadows; the dust will take you deeper– digging down to shaded levels of acrid denial tasting like dental floss. Dance light upon the meadow tresses; the sunbeam spotlights like braided rope. Fading numbness from the fingers out and suffice to say– the world takes hold.
Release me— my mind is a maze of serpentine storylines, bending and swirling with the Kabul River, cuddling, carving belting the Hindu Kush; Hindu Kush to the Tian Shan; Tengri Tagh or Tengir-Too, anything at all to breathe in Mountains of Heaven. Sharp, cascading inhales of the ice gods, the grins I see in the snow lines, the dusk-shades cast by sunlight—
Two final footsteps echoed against the scratched glass door & off we were— murmuring swampy lives away, lobbing for ourselves the God-given champagne against the bobbing she-queen, Queen of the Nile. Life was in bubbles, great wads of the stuff, tacky & sweet and still criss-crossed in hot-blooded pen— the deeper we burrowed in our footstep murmurs, the deeper we saw; until the … Read More The Gradual Shelf of the Sea