Blow off the keyboard. Lost in the Palisades. One of the hardest things to do is turn around looking for an empty hatch. No wind, no rain, no countryside in here, no foul and bemused antipathy, the readers quietly reading, belts and sashes draping from doorknobs. Words to help find other words, other ways of glistening in the phosphorescent sun, the gilded neon moon.
Old friends rub heads.
We're the dead entourage, the ambling trio, the mighty decongestants. On the plane ride we anticipate smooth wings. In a movie a guy jumping around, losing face. The stripes of the colors. Maintained his cool.