APPARENT RAVES
A knock us all want in waved hands to ride the air on a gale it’s great. ¶ Test a random twist of fate on the long-boarding long johns out there just catching the waves. I know you want to, Salamander. The air might’ve fucked you up the way it’s so late. I don’t know. I’m not responsible. But know you, too. Know you’d want to understand what a hurt faun knows is its way. Crawling up inside of ourselves with this paranoia we’re not being understood, unwilling all the same to show ourselves even to ourselves. Unaware, wanting it that way. ¶ Now we climb in common many lies as weights. I hold out my hand to you and you subform into a glass of white wine and cry. Out over your brim, unknown. To yourself unknown. To the world unknown. All your tears being washed away through the rungs of the latter you’re not so well balancing on any longer, no, don’t fall, don’t go—no…. ¶ Well I feared you, you shadows taking name. I feared what you’d become and pretended I didn’t want to. I walked out on a wave frozen in time and sighed. Always a wave with this one. Always a wave. Blazing arrowmathed warp-hearts throbbing blobbily, twanged. Zhizhing new arondith lack but you later saved a want for a need. Whatever that means. And to preparest leads a light a life not tangible bleeds wakes in morning sprite. Not adonis zeniths in dreary pays. I plunged my feet into the ocean. Again, now. Waves. Clamoring for best work. Not a hindsight sought for you. And wiggly wogglies flib-flob about the wayze. Lesped in might in tame. Dreary angles protruding from the haze of the city you’re in where the steam grows and grows. Tine a right to lethargy. Bricks by bricks by bricks’ light. In the ochreous brood tale. Purchased fine-line sacrament. Tired eyes waver. What it is I don’t know but it’s not its own. Ingenious eye to load. River den river den-den-den-deden. Harrowing slight-of-hand maneuvers going on in the interim between when and where, not known. ¶ Cat’s pajamas fly and sweet. Going clung-on clasped by the cat who can’t fit into the pajamas. Way-done wacked-out nubile frontierswomen gesticulating stage-right to the great trail there is not a set for. Glaciers moving slower than ever. Nothing actually accounted for in that way. While the levels of pith are furrowed on in the ash-gray heartrot’s Heimlich-saved beating spree a pox upon sweet dreams. Not the lay deframed painting. Not the only way to go, now. Many ways to go. Saucy in swing with the limp-ish angling of light to where want would go. Not in the season’s greeting card you received in the mail which involved a cartoon from childhood you’ve loved since then and a warm note you cherish from a loved one. A lot of love. Warming the icemelt delivering naught wiles. Per tub a grievance about water getting colder still. Not that you aren’t warmed sitting in there with the world still and time at a halt, some. There are saviors to be glanced in your past you cannot imagine now. Frankly beauteous button-nosed zithered hearts. Climbing up a rosy collection of raybeam, sotterswild, nutherly, plank ace, gourmet Fushimi, nutmeg, wallop-thorp, green grass and sweet pea, healer’s sparks, nascent gluey, percolating hilts, grand-ah-V, not-a-worders, not-a-things, placid jungle cats, blurry helped guests, at-dinners, attractive hips, whole water balloons busted free, soaking the pavement, an organic spatter of water, a long-long overdue hand with things, not alone, amblux, tortured screws, whalesongs sung, apparent raves, etc., etc. ¶ Insult to the maze of shrubbery a large Greek glass folding itself molten along the creases it makes. Zig-zagged brief flees. Ha-ha-ha-ing Santa Clause. Maybe/maybe-not, but who’s to say. I’ve come to try a flair to see. The ending the ended-one note of spares that does not prevent itself from sounding out-loud loud as sea. The freeze of trees—the freeze of the tree line. ¶ In a way just—and, in black and white almost—just scared, like. To have anything intelligible that might be good enough to read in a book I should’ve spent the time working on instead of this nonsense. But it’s just the way I want it to be: imperfect: nonconcomitant. So where bleary forces smash imperceptibly dust motes along the long screaming hall of the windy-ing atmosphere, there are all sorts of drags getting taken out of cigarettes and things like that. All this way all that. You never really know. But so, yes, we have taken it back down and, yes, we have learned what we can but honestly basically nothing. We might have found a way but it is hard to tell. It is hard to tell if it is too late or not. Or what’s the case. But the loving mind of it all is speared apart a locked gloss of Grecian castoffs’ lanes. There were no mere words to put to the lockjaw going. There were no forcible utterances or mastered shrake. Apart from the sin mil varnish the black desktop held its gleams in and reflected some, there were little dew drops—honest—on the thing; the window had been left open. Some humidity and morning’s air had gotten in, that way. You cannot tell for sure the look of the actor on the screen. The background is dark, and so is the actor’s face. There is just enough lighting, though, to make out a nose and lips and ears and cheeks just about and something like a wiry hairdo going thisaway thataway and not anything really besides that. The frame is unforgiving. Where the penguins march off the glacier to spryly jet through the arctic waters, so in much the same kind of way copies of yourself waddle onto the staged screen of your mind. Where like players in the play they say their parts and walk off one after the other after the other. And nothing is lost. And nothing is over. It is only just beginning. All of this everything.