The wind clears the self
and opens up the tree-lined avenue
to dusts and tornadoes of ochre-choked deserts.
I smell the bleeding of grass on the spring air
and yet the salt of the sea at the same time.
All places are contained here,
without the borders I use to define my ego.

Letter Intent

carrion crawling

447 orth horn of alunger

Mari 16, XIX

Le: we seek we've seen, cliff slide crushing ocean

Greets,
Your offer is most generous. So I must accept. You may send them at once.

On my behalf, I have located those texts which you requested not half a month ago. Their contents are as follows.

poet: 
rushing closer
to tune a cluster
entombed entrusted
oft lust of lustre 

actor:
for cloudy blood
enough
on off 
in tant did dan
intent intanned 
indented 
tangible

witch:
with whispered rush
a rain range hollis
flake flame remaiment
force change on constants

wizard:
arrange known crane ingrainments
into mange page staged arraignment
rancid escape encamp emancipated 
or cancel a fancy dance rant 

of fame,
floff fallident

came and went.


cc: Gordon Cormoroad, Selsy Amblin, CARP

You can hear the soft lamentations
of fingers scraping against paper
of gingerly seeking hands with blood pulsing erratically through them
as they skip a beat and tremble.
Sleep will not come easy to some.
Too easy to others.
This room encompasses an entire life.

I realize that my life could end
with the bite of a single bullet straight down the third eye of my forehead
a red-annulated hole boring into the smiling center of my mind
as I fall to my knees in a dusty road
on a hot summer day in a town where no one is born.
Where the bright searing yellow of the sun
wipes clean all memory,
and the lime-washed white houses shimmer in the heat of mid-afternoon,
slipping into dreaming mirages of their own.
Insubstantial can be this dance into darkness
this silly performance on the final stage,
a blunt point on an otherwise fine life.
It has happened before to mothers, fathers, daughters and sons,
and I too can be swept up in chance's sense of humour.
If only I can learn to laugh wryly at the ridiculousness of that moment,
I can live with that possibility.

The cold wipes away the lingering scent of the new year,
we stand amidst timeless waters.
On a dock that bobs and sways to the tune of the light ripples on the lake,
we see the hills that bristle with pine,
peppered and dusted with flecks of snow.
These quiet witnesses
are slowly erased from memory
by a soft, white curtain of snow and mist
as if She were shuffling her petticoats in shame
having revealed the supple glory of her secret
in a moment of careless abandon.
But now better sense has prevailed.
If you must taste of the dew,
you must earn the right of initiation,
to gain entrance by shedding your own self,
a naked, flickering flame,
that holds its breath
and plunges into the great unknown.