Thursday, June 17, 2010
Flagellent arabesque of minks and alluete beuaty. Lepidoptera circles violently in the dirty hall light. "Lynn told me about a job." Carotid artery elementals, yellow shirt flourscents couldn't compete with the scent of must, settled wood, and aged paint chemicals. Santana would have told me not to care, not to dream and to stop reflecting, but isntant coffee is hard to put down with the memory of awareness tastes like the time my first crush thrust a bent paper-clip into the chem lab light socket to amuse me. A ball of lightening shot out toward his crotch, scared him a little. A funeral pire is lit somewhere, and his body is a linograph of surprise, hesitation. Swallowing raw anchovies is easier the way his body tenses up and he thinks about whether he should open the door. In the corner of the hall, Tinneola Bisselliella's accelleration is now so great that the centrifugal forces thrust her back into the panache arc before the neurons can connect and the mouthless arbiter gyrates as purposelessly as a honeybee on speed. We are only as strong as our followers. Our followers only as strong as our beleif. I waited paitienly in the hall and thought of tyring to catch it, but I feared my nervous energy manifesting itself as child's play, or worse, desperation. Lepidoptera continues to lithograph beige asterists into tthe torpid darkeness when he arrives, gives me Lynn's address. Cavendish doesn't leave one thousand seals on the beach with their babies. I stop him. In his politeness he waits for words. They come. He quickly eyes my apperance for ulterior motive, as it seems to be, there alwyas either is one, or he's looking for one. Either way, the perception of light is a lunar body shooting so close to the source that it turns in on itself, as a satellite in orbit continually flying in one direction but so close to the gravitational pull that the direction of a straight line is mearly a turning in on oneself. He knows some of this, but not enough to ignore Lepidoptera's continual dive for the luminary bodies, suggesting that he, too, is a pawn in Poseidon's particle accelerator. I take the piece of paper from him, leaving Lepidoptera to silently render summer in shorn paper sheaths, a revelatory path for inking cannbis into fetid pipes of gray ash logs and astronomical observation. Epistulary service and corrusion commentary of alkaline properties sinks into curmudgeon corollary of burned last rights. I grasp my variegated lithograph of collective becoming and leave the rest to settle, smolder, and disperse.