Trembling lips, crying in the cold. Waters flow in opposite directions, rewinding the moments on behalf of Blockbuster. Saint-like ornamental celebrations. Catching auras like vibes in a strange city I do not know. Dreamcatchers work their magic without any further delays. A chill, a ghost brushing past. Dark, damp, cold. Wet rain after a frozen spell. Dirty hands getting washed in the sink. Mind over manners. Typical attitude. Friday’s forgotten all over again. Memory retention and suspension. Lullaby’s lull us by Tuesday. Succinct preamble. Choked on hold. Mulberry St all the way down. Sacred sacrum I will protect. Gentle like glass, like porcelain. Mild napping. Like, a frog has see-through eyelids. Neverminding great, giant gaps. Coming up short on the run. Quarter of a century year old. 25. How the wine must taste. Nervousness trembling. Scared and anxious. Runaway Suzie. Tricks of the trade. Windsock downcast on an overcast day. Singing to water droplets keeping time, catching drips in the kitchen sink. Wondrous worms crawl up.


Rogue set still, draped in a cloak in the dead of a cold winter’s night. Hiding out. Even when he is in plain sight, he is hiding out. A woman silhouetted in a darkened kitchen turns and in the moonlight we can see her side profile, dimly. She is lost in Time, some 18th or 19th century wonder. Ghost immortal. Rogue ready to rob, ready to fight as soon as a spark snaps awake. Lighter fluid and firecrackers are nothing but fodder. Rebel, farmer going against the grain. Drummer, marching to the beat of his own. Hidden in plain view, they and we are everywhere. Daunting, haunting task force of self-importantizing ruffians. Sides are all about perspective. Climbing out onto branches and balconies and cliffs, I am stretched outward reaching, grasping for truth. Willing my shoulder to pop out, my forearm to grow and stretch further. Reaching the moon. Fingertips touch thin, rough bark. Wolf howls.