Behind The Moon

I meditate on a lake in tonic Africa. I’m painting myself toward an intestine. I wrestle raw umber. My scent is a horseradish choir. I touch my gluttonous understanding as they convulse the table. Pack it since it’s a hibachi. These are my friends the trees. I’ve got brass peculiarities and a convocation moss that carries my salt into visibility. I crush myriad indignities. Orange is the warmth of a baseball glove. I’m the ancestry I vibrate with oars. Machine the garden. A maple is a nexus of choice. My misconceptions have a nascent blur when I spit them out below the complications. The volume by the fence bleeds structure. I fold the crab thunder. My wait for you is in the orchard penciling a wandering moon. Form is metaphorical. Growl the heavy emotions. Squeeze them into flailing pickles where the cherries shine in vestal eagerness. Let’s impose ourselves beyond the galaxy. We use liniment, don’t we? Then it’s true. The dab truly is culminated in goop. The invocation is awakening now. Savor the mutations. We’ll talk about them later. I’m my own ransom and this makes me Kansas. I feel a blaze of insight beside the battle. The daily war. The daily firs and simultaneities. The nightly darkness behind the moon.