Vision is the carpenter's balm. Nails are the carpenter’s supreme court. The juicy iron of the sediment gives his shadow a peach beard. The land begins to cross itself and air out the earth sticks. I think to calculate round by mending a hat. The wind scratches a palm as it approaches the border. The laws here are swooning. Everyone has gone to the moon. What is the mind? Our closet needs commas. I know that because the sauce is sweet tonight. It's high time to invent something for the flaming bohemian in all of us. The restlessness is perfectly normal considering how long it takes for the hour to hatch into daylight. Time is the same everywhere except prison which is a puddle of smashed green water. The fourth dimension is waiting. It’s our only hope, a shovel full of almonds in a tincture of lightning. Maybe we can speed it up by tangling away at the chasm. I know a place where the drawers are metal, the offices are whispers & the parabolas rattle with solar winds. The warehouse is to the south. We feel the acute benevolence of angels. I know I’m due to do something, sink into cavernous reflection or go spinning through various careers mixing a savage clarity with the long slow sway of swamp pendulums, which is not going to win me any awards, but it will help with the process of reconciliation, and bring bullets if it fails. Peacocks need plenty of space. I’m getting away if you get interested, and we fly into elements believing in ourselves even when everyone else has left the room. You be zinc. I’ll be brass. And together we’ll shine. This could be a song. But it’s not. It’s a plea for justice. And a field of lavender at the end of a rainbow. The dear coffee of the hardware store will be our fun little elf. They don’t call it the nervous system for nothing. It’s lonely up here in the percussion section. I have to be able to make thunder when thunder is summoned. And this gives me being. Otherwise I’d be another loop in the woodwinds, an inveterate misdemeanor getting by on regret.