Page 18 - Haruspex

Thirty Degrees of Gemini
I. A woman, t'other side of our song, reclining in the dark. One hand on the old Reverb valve, creaks with age. A stray steam whistle blows. The Wi-Fi goes out.
II. The balled up remains of previous decades is kicked around a hallway. A janitor quietly takes home the remnants as sacrament later in the evening.
III. Naked under a streetlamp, again. A picture of it months later seen on Reddit or the bathroom mirror of an X-Ray room.
IV. Row upon row of young trees cut down for felling. Pollen, seed, & fruit renders us speechless.
V. “I’m afraid I’ve lost you again.”
VI. Car idles on nameless suburban street. The lights of a locked old barn !icker on.
VII. Claws at the small of your back. Well. This is what I think I should get used to seeing. She
moves in closer. Her lips graze the scar on her chin.
VIII. Cherry blossoms kiss your face, sappy. Cherry blossoms kiss your face, useless. Land of roses
and silver trout, bisected by a blue lake. Fuck it.
IX. Fountain pen in the hand of a man who carries a lute. (Pamela's response is... “who cares? Get a
real job.”)
X. Two shots of stigmata juice.
XI. A birch falls, crying. You know it well.
XII. Eating peanut butter from the jar with a look like this is exactly what it looks like.
XIII. With a wry smile, Pamela turns back to look at Pam who rides the dizziness of fullness.
XIV. The path from your mother's loft (the courtyard at night) to the rabbit hole, labyrinthine and
seven hundred feet deep. A !ock of sheep and a hen with more layers beneath her, a strip of
land monochrome
XV. That dog still loves me. The sun is high. And I'm an unrepentant bastard. My eyelids are puffy.
It's past midnight and I'm telling stories to no-one.
XVI. A box of hamburgers, promptly consumed.
XVII. Sit back and enjoy this one while it lasts.
XVIII. An individual is walking and a crowd of people watch them. They have to catch their breath
from the running and the crying. It's a long way to the Dumping Ground. XIX. Good riddance; I need a cigarette.
XX. I don't care.
XXI. A TV which never goes out.
XXII. Sexual fantasies involving compact cars, government records, and thigh-high boots. XXIII. A ramshackle remnant of an ancient forest.
XXIV. A faded T-shirt under a tarp.
XXV. A complex, black crepe, set in a bed of ice, reminiscent of Frostbite Spider Webs. XXVI. A trio of panties stacked besides a note: “Care for a little memento?”
XXVII. List of vicious demi-humans drawn in chibis.
XXVIII. Small red eggs left on the doorstep of a neighbor.
XXIX. Corpse perfume. Peaches. Liqueur. A cake marked by one ruler emlike; the other emaciated. XXX. Two futures. One written, and the other painted. A few thin rainbows hang above the ruined
library of a monastery.