vacation nation, vaccination station. saw her pull up, jaw bouncing to a rhythm different from the chrome conch spiral suspension, the dead couple in the back all like two old trees grown together, the jagged bits of their tweed scarves forming such an Escherian houndstoof labyrinth but the woman behind the wheel will talk and talk while they in the back rot rot rot. the party's begun! the boy has his sneakers out, there on the table, and spiking them with a pin and inserting into their knit such garish puffs and whooly pillows of felt, making them clownish, pinkish, blueish, rainbowish. i'm no stranger to the old men and women of the dollar. we agreed back home we knew best, me and that rat bastard, we know the way to butter their balls. make eyes, little sweet eyes at them, little sweet pearls they see but be sure to make them suspect your innocence. you've got to really make them feel special, like they have that redeeming value as a human that makes them special and attractive, not the appeal of their bank accounts. but now, i only bite at the bastards. so let me be polite, i say. hell, i open the door for them even, and the old skeletons slither out, banging and jangling bits of bone. the boy's shoes are done and they are astonishingly ugly. he greets his mother in french, and does it sarcastically. he turns to his awaiting crowd. later, the clearing is dark but for some candles. they've brought out the goddamn china and silver, set it up on some folding tables. the tupperware matches. a ways off they've got some firecrackers. the boy lazily sets one off, he seems to do it to please his guests, who snidely pop crackers and sip champagne.

stem from tree, the bough, the bough, and on the bough a bird. fly from tree, the bird, the bird, and in the sky a plane. from that plane a light, a light, and in the eye of me. in the eye of me, a tree, and on its bough a bird. from its bough the bird will fly, the bird will fly the tree. and from the tree into the sky, the bird will fly. the sky in which the bird will fly, the sky contains a plane. and from that plane my eye can see a blinking blinking light. blinking once twice three times, the blinking light is seen. is seen by eye the blinking light the plane is blinking light.


frozen warm, quietly jamming two gears together, ignoring the stick in the spokes. the belt's too tight, the motor's overheated. some plenty of electrons have fired in the wrong direction, their bright dots on the brick wall form an unconnectable splatter. memories, lacking potency, bubble, curdle, and sink in chunks, lost before providing sensation. the mind is over, over, brown and fizzled, needs to sleep, needs to sleep.