study on the tensile strength of most matters
he would sit and yell pages across the room to children who couldn't read. in the gentle street we imagined sloping through the breeze-ground across our hard floors in the room that was kitchen and living and bed. german french japonaise brazillian port, thick wet sloppy wines, white sandy dregs, long dark oils stretching towards eggs, quick cupped in the heat and pooled together. a transfusion of frames and forces. the lazy colors splayed and reaching to unlock and unwind muscles bunched, expectant. and our craning necks survey lords of the low ground atmosphere, the earth stretching, reaching, cupping our faces expectantly, liberating, and singing on the metal and wood beats in the kitchen. annunciating earth tones and sunlight feelings, clean but nearly dirty, neat but not clean, a wisp but noticeable, a wick but short and transparent. so it was in the early mornings of the earth, in the craggy hills of sunlight, the music and echo and a pillow beneath the image of a past position of a chin of a man with screwed up eyes, trying to see with the sunlight, through the sunlight, into an echo of inescapable nostalgic portent. the sky laying figurative glances, clues that push us towards and over large amounts of earth, to echos, and to echo and become searched after searching, and to lay in the ground our triumphs beneath our misery and through woven a thick cloth of mirth-work and joy and necessary solitude. and in our cupping hands we grab the ground wick and grapes and make cloth wine and discovery, and out of necessity we make humble and out of sobriety we fashion the tune of our rubbing together against our necks we tie ropes and our hands are constantly knotted together, enraptured in work fashion, and the various feelings of wood, and metal, and looseness and tightness, and just barely, and solid. so that before we are finally carried away by the inevitable and finite we balance appropriately and make the scene with low heads concealing wicked grins, with woodcuts echoing through our past histories and imagine cutting wood neither sunk or buoyed by the facts that will never happen, or just how things goes, and in the few remaining dark stained woodcuts a marvelous light ruptures forward if allowed to happen, with the appropriate amounts of activation energy. we slope like a rollercoaster still leaning against the wall and constant balls of sweat love moment electricity flutter down our skin pipes and by-lines, rotating against the wall, tuck-in billfold cleft chin and arm-magazines aimed, akimbo, aimed, drawn, withdrawn, delicate, transfixed, placed and positioned so sloping rollercoaster of beau brill balls loping each ways sideways motioning the channel lines of our desire skin so we are an odd fixed mixture of bullets muscle bones, position. I say through a hundred years thousands of goodbyes and pause. pause and reflect. unwind, but beneath the musculature, breath in, again despite the musculature.