children of the fall


the gravel welcomes

us home with

whispers of blessing

under the tires of our

bottle. we unfurl,

each pages of the

immeasurable fable.

we read ourselves

aloud to the land.

moa connects the

power, digs old ash

from the fire pit, ties

synthetic wombs

between familiar

trees, illuminates

the edison bulb

string lights tinseled

throughout webs of

branches above us.

i make home in the

camper of creature

comforts, dress the

beds, dust counter

and table tops,

sweep the floor and

unpack provisions.

neut prays over the

firewood, recites

revocations, and

gives address to the

ancestors in a cloud

of incense and sage.

we reunite around

the fire, blueprint

a sacral chakra

singing bowl. moa

builds two simple

pine frames, stokes

the forge he made

from a thirty pound

air conditioner

refrigerant tank, and

drops a handful of

brass bus bushings

into his also indie

crucible. short three

pounds of bentonite,

neut and i grind kitty

litter into gray dust

with misshapen

aluminum pestles

against cinder

blocks along the

kind incline of lake

michigan limestone.

moa joins us and we

continue our work in

a circus of unison.

we mix the hand

ground clay with

the appropriate

parts of white silica

sand in a mist of

water with walking

sticks and sore

fingers. we pack the

subsequent mixture

into the frame

around our vessel of

svadhishthana and

wait. we separate

the frames to find

the bottom half of

our casting mold

intact, the top half

a mess of afternoon

elbow grease. moa

pours the molten

song and we build a

brass blob in an

orange d major. we

molt the day and

don our dusk armor.

in a would-be sauna

on the hill,

we co-create a

sacred dream space

in a small tangle of

nature yet hidden

among the ever

increasing plane of

the purple robber

baron badlands. we

take our seats for

the opening act, set

our silent prayers on

the wind and eat the

tin foil sacrament.