strange quark foxtrot


the sigil rises from the

fire, hangs above our

crowns in the plasma

like a neon ornament

or the day-glo fruit of

an ether tree. its

organic fluorescence

first delights and then

blinds with a strange

quark foxtrot and

flashbulb pop. it splits

in two and aligns with

our hearts before

knocking us from our

shoes onto our backs

branding our skin. the

fog of intent divides

and enters our bodies,

satisfied with our

answer. neut and i sit

up, gently inspecting

the symbol seared

into our flesh through

the holes burnt in our

shirts. wincing at the

touch of my finger, i

speak first, aloud,


ironically, i believe the

fog will make this path

of heart to power clear.

already i can intuit an

itch under my shoulder

blades with an ever

unfolding sense of



as well, my hepta-gen

ebb and flow lines are

open like never before,

he telepaths in answer.


we hug eyes and

boil over with

visceral mirth, belly

laughter seizures in

absurd abandon. a

slide whistle spiral

into a retro-future 

vertigo. we become

the discarded family

of thrift store frames

smiling back at one

another from beyond

the grave. our allies

pilfer our portraits

from dust covered

glass and splintered

right angles. they sit

us down on the worn

pine and wrought iron

bench near the fire.


neut’s purple crow

headed cerulean

silverback and my

tree-fro-ed gremlin

grey in pink pajamas

pull up a seat of air

and begin to telepath

in a queer harmonic

unison that tightens

our seams and

tastes like rust,


you must return to the

driftless western

upland a gaslit triad to

stalk further adventure

down the tin foil rabbit

hole. in the needlepoint

glow of the ink spot sky

of a new moon under

the keeper of the scale

stalk the wisdom of



moa hulks his truck

into the driveway. with

a smoking hole in the

center of his favorite

melancholy t-shirt, he

thinks to us,


let’s go.