Bleached gateways hanging beyond a whiteness into the sac of the recessive, no-wind the only wind to speak of, a chant of hair, out lowing, brokered by this plug of sun gore, I eats air, you eats air, we all eats us some air. Twilight in the ink cuffs of grilled sat-down, I cain’t come home, cain’t nohow, twilight in the heat sink, a null gaping, and the tracts of old boneshines, tomorrow is Jack on Fire. What we serves we serves in style. Hot plates a-stagger. You know the secret when they milk you the secret, guessing is a sucker’s chock, each step another puzzle, flanked by what must be children, but seem different somehow, like scissors in someone else’s hands, ashface is, as ashface is, leached salts slow the drone. In the root cellar of the canyons wolf spiders bitch amongst themselves, green eyes shining, gearing up for another night in the scrub, the scouring of the blanched grasses and dried clouds quarter-folded into the cliffs, come morning it’s back to flash fry, come morning, the pale slog of the zero and its wildering flak into fullness. The kettling, and the brooming in of the bone salad from the steeper cool of the gone below, we done charred the tie rods, what’s left is all you’ll own to.
Jeffrey Little | The House of the Cross-Eyed Curve Contents | Mudlark No. 47 (2012)