I don't know who or what, but I do know why. And slowly (though without inebriated compassion) I slide the soft rollover through the fields of timbered acquiescence, searching for the process that will concatenate my petty assets. It is lost here, the grains of sand that fall like miniature life forms from swirling galaxies above, impregnating the earth with subtle inoculation, the strands still to be found; a future time, a different city -- by a different person.

I am small bones, fractured features. I am here, fall. There are thirteen walls to every room I inhabit, and I look gently over caustic horizons from my windows, teeming over the creation, now left alone (windswept & blown?) – queries and quivers, but no answers, my friends—they call from above, what they had done be what we are, as you know and have known all along.

I don’t know who or what, but I do know why; you slave & sweat over kitchen stoves, unsowed by yerselves, waiting for the mortgage to come through like pate: moldy and lost to the elements. I am the spoon, and you hold me gently, gliding me toward your mouth like an aeroplane. You, the pilot, your cheeks red and gorgeous.

What I’ve been trying to tell you: across these fields, from my house… You sit in front of me, in a poppy-orange corduroy lazy boy, and I’m singing ancient songs about schooners and conquering the new world. You try to light your pipe, but the matches are wet. I wield light for a living, so I with ease burn your preemptive desires.

What is love?” you may ask. And I surmise that you have come here, seeking answers, and reconfigurations to alter your world to one perhaps more structurally sound. These fields are wet with moisture; I look for thunder to challenge my lightning fingertips. Your feet stand, sinking in the mud. There is nothing left for me here. I am of the hurricane, and I must blow where it goes.

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