can't cast the last stone: to the past and beyond yonder

The light phased out in blips and drips sapping the energy
the universe drowned in a silent moment
papacies of eternity were born and reborn
a gentle hum to accompany an aeon.
The buzz was sucked up by the rugdoctor
tore a ligament or two in the big rip
sipped from the big cup of a small life
tap-danced to latent dreams

the sheafs and wreaths laid out
stories were placed in the church donation basket
lives to follow lives
deaths to follow all.
Meth in the lab.

My dreams are sunny, yellow, dry,
faded, awake, fresh and confusing.
Without a memory, every moment is like a reincarnation.
The transient avatar.

another day without why notes

a passerby missed some fashion
i mashed up some legion and continued the grazing
there were plenty of herders gathering silk on the wormish road to govedon
this time we were ready and had wool unfurled from optical levers
[soon the sun would be out and the flies could not eat]
i warmed myself near a coldstone and revealed another layer of martyrdom
this was in fact a new way of expression
this was in theory a waste of aloofness
this was in mind another cave to repair
that was uncalled for, they unisonized
tutti at the train station decided the union was in everyone's best interest
so investment was made on outer garments and sweat poured in like liquid living
luckily the flatmate was ok with my constant abrazing of letters addressed to 'uncle coronado'
frankly, i don't care she said
i demanded the deed to my dream back
she obliged and then conceeded
we all had a good laugh

Thoughts and things I hope I misheard correctly

Airport:
Release the Russians
Final boarding call for Husky and Wilcox

Railway reservation counter:
Little red-haired man
I'm waiting in line to book my ticket to Bangalore, it's hot and taking forever. There's a little reddish-orange haired man (people here colour their hair with henna to cover up grey hair) up in the front of the line. I fixate...
he stands up there,
My only reference point for motion in the queue,
the little red-haired man.
He stands, doesn't budge (why won't you move, little red-haired man?)
Slowlycrawls forward, shocking orange flashing mockingly in my eyes,
Little, red-haired, man.
He reaches the counter, head bobs up and down, questioning questing tasting testing.
I knew that my salvation lay in his finishing his job.
Only then would this line quench itself.
He finally finishes. I lose sight of him for a moment, the little red-haired man, when people lose their patience at an oldish woman who insists on cutting the line.
I find him again.
He leaves, comes back, leaves.
I hate him, I respect him,
the little...tiny, little...red-haired man.

crab tree spinning rims...spend them splendid

pasty clines moreover a pulmonary sleuth
let's get a tattoo on the island of aorta
bring all inner organs to bale
he will tell new stories to children on bent knee and gentrified past time parapets
this paste is a bit old
7 colds sealed the deal and made new oolong
tea that is, texas style
i'd like to while out a bit
she said
he didn't
i did
oh. yes. make a compound frature in that loaf
i'll bring the severed wine list
mist with prismatics
mel