I would like to write something that is merely fiction, a fictional dripping tropical green, being a language of concentration through history.
the morning fogs thick with rat traps, while an edifice of worker’s heads follow other heads, to follow others following the followers.
doors open, dogs bark, door dogs on the go.
for some the thirst of their bones, dry, burns with rage down the street, flames evaporate into the air, and leave a trail of smoke.
composites of intense parables smolder in the preexistent.
convictions like brushing ones teeth daily, is the singular most conditional pursuit, pursued with suicidal vibrations. that is next only to the seven quotations of coffee and tea drinkers, leaping over boundaries of opiated DDT, just to grasp any torrential truth, any altered ghost at hand.
all happening during the suns first crippling reflection of boundaries over buckets of laundry for an entire population of imaginary crippled, transmuted realities begging for water, food, or a collision course with a dime,
most do not want to face the next step, the sun’s beginning dialect harping on every surface.
while others sleep a drug induced death; some walk endless trails, trudging done what they are and will always be.
it happens, doors slam, cows graze, slow at first, blinding in the next implantation, steam havoc reflects back warmth on an undulating ground of suffering.
the crow caws, voltage regulators hum, gas flames ignite, tests are prepared, and the birds assert walking distillations.
everywhere humor vanishes, there is no longer the lone entity delivering the paper to why knots and next.
there is a blaze of never always burning wisdom to a nub.
the icy history of another day clicks into motion, a linear, circular, up and down, wiping the brow from the heat’s heat, helpless beating heart, preparing for another steel turning, rolling over beds of hot tar.
full stops, jerky starts all in the phenomenology of war.
granted, at times there are visiting aspiration that disperse with full waking, but please do not mistake this for anything more than the toilet flushing, driven downwards where anarchy is proclaimed louder than an ignored presences. they know their ironies from repeated reports on the development of form
for it is the camaraderie of reference that allows some to continue one more day increasing hurricane season elegies.
least us not forget, the vast majority still sleeps or sips on continental breakfasts, only slightly remembering the sun-dried carcasses from the day before.
around them all, on the ground lay remnants, brownish decay an army of ants rush to devour.
pointillist dots of glow, mark the surface on behalf of a fallen empire.
the wind blows, the sun bakes decaying flesh.
everything burns away by midmorning.
the peacock cries out, not one grain of sand is untouched by the wheel.
where a sign marks a compounds entrance, chickens and chicks wander, and a dog lays in the baking sand, a lone survivor emerges, wounded limping home.