half crescent

tentacle moon

 

roses of the

south in my

coffee, sunlit

chores at dawn

on the factory

farm of eden. i

wax a curious

heart of gold

with an old

friend via

the digital

telepathy of

radio wave

witchery,

hieroglyphs

through

hyperspace.

i become

acutely aware

that i only

appear to be

perceiving

from

my right eye.

i blink like a

bird into my

left, feel my

optic nerves

running to their

respective

hemispheres

and am then

reeled to a

sitio before my

print of reading

and well worn

copies of the

teachings

like a cartoon

cat following

his nose to a

windowsill

pastry cooling

in a late

summer zephyr.

it’s there i tune

my piano string

spine to the key 

of the second

attention.

i dig my hand

into a ceramic

flowerpot in

the shape of

an empty elm

stump half full

with pocket

change. i eat

a handful of

quarters and

pull open the

front door.

a residential

rust belt

walkabout the

concrete filling

of a genetically

modified

mayberry pie.

for hours i

follow a three

crow murder,

into the night

until they bleed

into the sky.

it’s here i

encounter

old friend,

old dan, in

olive branch

corduroys and

a mulberry

cardigan, a

high frequency

dress shirt with

organite

buttons.

under the

indigo auspices

of a

half crescent

tentacle moon,

we come upon

a barn on fire

with red doors

hung open on

glowing hinges.

inside we find

a billy goat with

broken legs,

fist-pumping

the night away

in a vain

pursuit of

happiness.

having lived

this quest prior

we suffer no

fools, save

ourselves

gladly.

the first time,

we freed the

goat, mended

his legs and

adopted him.

the second, we

broke his neck.

the charm, we

keep walking

because this is

a neutral

karma

playthrough. 

i blink into my

bedroom, bag

and board the

day. i take my

wizard stick to

bed, a fistful of

crow scratched

paper scraps,

a black box

ballpoint, and

captain’s

apostrophe

manifest.