Rhizoid

Voot voot, boring into the door, came the owls, upon the hour. Clocking cuckoo, striking , the wooden gong, the clickety-clack of clogs upon the overfloor, the treehouse dome, the gremlin cartels and their business matters, the plaster of paris moving towards the sunlight Pinocchio in life-seeking. I peaked through the cabbage patch at the door and the smoking seagulls that can’t catch the wind for all their gusto, and the 700 year old hunter with the blunderbuss. Buster keaton’s comedy routine upside down on the tv screen, as we capture the last traces of an aerial culture. Alien isolationists. Hopeful, mythologized, boasting of various moats and spikes the impaled castle walls that are dragged down on whim, serve as a bellows to our flight-fire.