that their stench is engraved in the mutilated air. Airpot of immobility. Except the flight of
airyones into holes in the hidden blue. Never to arrive, or to arrive again and again against the glassy faces glued to the glassy air: tell us what’s it like? What did you find there? What they want to hear is what they want to see. In the mirror riddled with riddles, wholed with holes. ‘Welcome back’ is a return to the forewarned, the forepleasure grounded, mounded in foreboding, fraught with faulty foreplay, waylaid in frothy history. Firing words like tics guilded on the golden boar before its meaty fate in embers sizzling in historiedpit, the shit they left on the storied shore. Lest people forget that they’ve been here a long time and time is here and here is now, sacrificial cow. How some saved themselves to partake in the killing of it & how some killed themselves to save their bow.
22 Nov. ’17