Astrological means to the end times. Ripe fruit. A séance drifts into Auto Park. Dark interior stratums. Tree rings. If we lose our will…will we recover from traumatic collisions colluded by too coolness? To the left to the left to the left right left. My left hand with its knobby fingers and fisted fatigue. My buttocks with their slow ache massage. Trip the light to land sprawled in shadow. Pull a blind eye from the tightening sun. Another dusk with pockmarked sanctuary. Airy surmises. Enterprising youth on the edge of curbs. Curbing inward we maintain adherence to the centerline. Nothing precipitated the drought that has landed us so thoroughly in hoarse whispers. Parchment from past decries all man-made articles of filth. Factory farming for the feint heart. Proclamation from future extols virtuous flora fanning into overzealous canopy. What better way to free tongue from barricade of scripture. Talk of the roundabout town. Down the chute to claim our loot.
Trains in the main stay. A hot bed of mortal coils. We search high and low for the mid-station. In a festive light there are fastidious shadows. Such is the sanctimonious singsong. Lovers of all things bright and bristled. A blip on the rotunda omens unseen pockets emptying their lint and receipts. The effervescent voices “like a glass of champagne” and a whirlpool will-o-the-wisp in the winged annexes of nave. Willfully, stringently, bitterly, they tightened their caps in the balmy air. Over in the next field the animals form pods, bunched souls, an amalgamation of fluids and fleece. The endless drought ended in a mass blow off. Herbal tinctures and poultices to bekcon meandered grace. Riverbed without fresh linens. Birds in mass descent forsake aerodynamic displays of uplift. In another lifetime. Plum wine drunk in the cup with the moon.
Oh, beast. Oh fortunate one. The intermittent leaves give way to vast expenses. Circle circle dot dot dot. In the mean time is the end time, is the time opening to embrace static estuaries. Coming down the track in rhythmic foreplay. Happenstance. Standing at alert. Muscles go to the place where they are most likely to harden. Spasms. Massage the knots from the over-tied hammock. We fall through the cracks. Winged Nike. In long forgotten deserts prescription to dry-lung. Coughing up thick, ashy globs of re-breathed debris. Mortals circle in immortality. Breastplates, skulls, wide berths for navigation through narrow channels. Open this letter. Body’s garbled voice writes with an unsteady hand. Glyphs and hatch marks knowing not if they are accidents of erosion.