In the neptune woods he wandered. Over trodden swaths of packed detritus, over soggy leaves of fall’s past and a past tree-fall. Past the old silos still as cold as they had been upon their erection in the seventies, now plastered with angsting black and white graffitis. Deeper into the gully gorge, he trotted as if back to a place he had once been. This trip brought back an elixir of thought and yearning for the skunk cabbage swamplands of the Daniel Boone preserve and the serendipitous topography of the Glacier Hills. But this place was different, it was inhabited, it was spent yet still was that place where one could veil oneself momentarily from the vice and the pain.
Upright sprinted a doe deer from her midday grassbed. The grass was matted down and still warm from her slumber and took on the texture of a young boy’s blonde locks brushed down over his eyes. Behind her tripped her fawn, a frail emaciated youth with blotched white streaks dotting its milky summer coat. He continued on.
The day was humid but the trees provided him with due shade. Gradually the leafy underfoot melded to sandstone beddings and soon the flat solids were his new source of traction. He stumbled up a brief face lined with pale green sumac trees and paused to receive a call from his good friend. He told him of a night party and promises of drugs nearby. They laughed, but he did so half-heartedly, lost in the place where he stood, away from the incident of falsity. He said take care, and ended the call. He was pained by the loss of his friend to festivities without cause, without purpose, without reason, and was more saddened that he himself could no longer find anything in them.
Staring up to the foliage, he saw the red berries of the sumacs—these were the trees of the trails of his youth. Their redorange berries would litter the grounds he and his twin would stomp through and through, dreaming of nothing and caring about less. How he yearned for the trails again, for the back back yard, for the youth of the fawn, and for the chance to track deer prints in the snow pack just once more.
He spun around 180 and saw, past another clumping of brush, the tops of roofs. Roofs of apartment buildings just underneath large braided steel cabled telephone wires. He knew where he was, and knew he was in no woods today.
CANNOT STOP LISTENING TO WU LYF
WANT TO GO TELL FIRE ON THE MOUNTAINS
Mildewed shirts for mildewed days that pass comfortably. Not much of the residues from the pores today. Just the mildewed shirts for mildewed days that pass uncomfortably. Dust off your cuffs, lad, ‘n release your nostalgic pangs. The drooping sloucher under a humid drenching sun so bright to heavy the spores in the air we breathe. Collecting on drawers of the people that don’t think twice to wash the nostalge away. Mildew blossoms in my lungs and keeps the pain thick. Mildew seeps into my mind that churns out none but mildew thoughts of you and me. His mildew shirt draped over the chair to be used on future days played out for the sake of the past’s admonition. Musky mildew, musky day; this muskellunge pain is here to stay.
Evangelist evangelical, you evenly tread down the evening road. Past the minarets and trumpetting sounds, vicissitudinal visions cloud the frame. Mounting up now, prancing now, swerving an evangelist evangelical neck with a quick twist and snick. Glancer still and sees adorning the front of the nightingale glooms where the eastern truth tower once stood, a replacement eerier than Hell. The eastern turret cannons canon aloft a throne of indignation! Tripper still and drops his eyesight in bewilderment of the wilderness of proselytization that awaits his trot on home.
3AM came quick that night. 3AM fright and adjust to the lack of light in the bedroom. The infantile banshee scream breaks over the distant sirens. Stagger and momentarily swoon, reach for the drawstring shade at the edge of the room. What could this night terror be? In whom could such hatred reside to cause such a vile utterance of ashudderance? Poke an ear to the screen of the naked window. Orangutan sheen fills in the outline of bricks down the walls to the street where the calls might be originating. The bedside inspection that was nearing twisted forays of mental conjecture made a breakthrough aside that haunterous windowstill stare. The half-grown screech that had broken mine slumber was no more than one word.
Who could this be? What can they not see? And what more can I myself not see that I must know? How can one not wonder? Surely this insidious pitch mustn’t be due to less than a murder or callous kidnapping! Why not wonder!
But how could I know, only ears could see what the eyes could not. Only ears proved effective to hear, and eyes left uselessly protected, encased by apartmental orangutan walls.
Again the wails came up to my bedside table, and whispered that dreadful one word, to haunt me to an ill-suited slumber.
"Mama! Mama!" "Mama! Mama!"
4AM came slow, on that night.
The beautiful moon hovers outside.
It’s a dark night.
I wish I could see that moon.
ZAMBRI. saw them live tonight in bklyn; they opened for cold cave and absolutely killed e’erything. can’t wait for an official release.
SUBTERRANEAL DESIRE ROUND AND ROUND