I am communicating
I am listening with my eye to the eye hole
There’s scratching in the walls of machinery
Checking boxes on a checklist
I have written some names
I have copied and memorized a number

I speak to you thus from a motel
by the airport
thru cardboard tubes taped end upon end
which if they were laid in a straight line
they could reach from the alternative
to whisper on the lunar surface

of dead oceans

the dusty notions, rocky ideals

this conceptual framework is sort of plywood
swinging in null wind

the manila folder flaps open like a screen door
to our files

It is annotated here that you shaded under a cottonwood
one important thing, the way those leaves waved

at the gravel wash

I underline with a motion of my finger
certain numbers I’ve been meaning to discuss with you
encrusted with seagull droppings and a few feathers

some numbers bark like sea lions across the far side of the bay
shall we cross it when we get to that bridge

stop, exit the vehicle to toss the bicycles over the side
watch the tires submerge in white water of forgetting
the black tires of concept

I underline here
at one point various narratives did collapse
they fell to the side under the eucalyptus the dirt embankment
strewn with dry leaves and seeds

all of this was likely visible
like ribs thru a debraided pelt
thru the eye hole, cut as if in anticipation of the eclipse
of the sunburnt flaming past
with the thumb print-sized smudge of the present

the afterthought that would lead to plasma leak

 

 

 

pelican skull

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