Page 37 - Iterations:Other/Is

Enter the room. Turn to page 12
Outside there is a composition notebook nailed to a Hawthorn tree. You take it down and read the #rst page: “I wanted to give you something for May Day, Beltane, Loyalty Day, the fractal split of skunk cabbage under our toes as we gathered our collective breaths for the last time. I imagine the roots still hold pieces of our DNA and populate the bank of the Taunton with tiger lilies and cabbage heads. You can plant cocaine in the soil, brick sized, and there will be pool tables sprouted from encouraged Maples. You can split the belly of crickets on the bank and I will call them lobster as you drown them in brackish water and dip their wet bellies in warm Vienna sausage fat. You can wander the hallways with eyes made herbal under the full moon and the sweetness in your veins leaves you swimming in the hallways before a shifting washer and dryer made electric from the mottled #ngers of corpses (owering spathes in vortex. And after you have consumed this dream imagine it in decay. The deep roots make no mention of fruit at the surface. I will sit under the roof as the fog sets in, wave (ags of defeat, turn crooked #ngers toward an obscured moons, shave my face with broken stones from your fathers garage, mean my heart tries to grows, but I drink from the faucet upturned; the world; pulls at canines until they shake and the gums give way, there — a chipmunk makes haste from Olivia, doll of Shae, towards vent, grabs orange membrane she discarded, and into eventual cheese and steel (ip crunch, which should, on a good day decompose and make a pansy purple in its event horizon. I am round belly bull in fog under streetlight rolling towards upvote, thumbs up, and eventual declination. It was passing by, the answer, your voice, all of them, padding for next soul day.