you molt the toil off nerves in reverse of corpses to breathe purer air you molt the toil off the ghosts of 12th street chase me down 11th chunks of unabridged thinking the bus cracks into view they’re afraid of boredom there were sixteen of them half-lidded and leaning back rapidly just under the edge of driving down the shoulder half-lidded and leaning back , glistens reasonably – my lap as launchpad and i would tell you that quiet could be mistaken objects almost fossilized with dew to avoid the grid it’s dave woodard we’re spinning cracks into our pay my favorite black cigarette lighter desiderara on thin fabric threads of heats of cinders a real nice contrast everything outside is fake running pruned denim through the middle an amazing transforming fruit could be mistaken the flowers like open wounds coffee’s warm hold on the tongue guitars threading between my movement over deep gestures piano keys were falling everywhere think of the squirming kittens looked at the baby kittens birthing this morning’s kittens and i would tell you that i make patterns grated to the degree of rupture lurking on the mailing list the bus cracks into view a real nice contrast float among late may’s midnight lilac mists i murmur to her it won’t work as well atomic and slim because i’m going to take a shower the rococo loneliness staring out petulent windows blondes smirk and look away pink and amethyst and idle it’s bleeding behind the sun like simple japanese temples the furrowed gray sky i’m blessed with them shellac the hamster guitars threading between hitting herself, sobbing your wealth, spirit-walking if the ice cream truck starts playing different tunes piles of dust flute lures us into this flowing of open wombs innocence was your century now that they’ve weeded out the weak ones laying down in glass invasive YOU’LL ROT IN HELL FOR THIS smothered by light
The Moon in Lake Erie is an algorithmic, envrionmentally-generative, object-oriented hypertext currently in progress at http://www.lewislacook.org