Monday, December 26, 2011

Big tureen of incense

A few moments ago they held our last smoldering expression in this town; now the ashes are heavy dirty, a prolm for waste removal bureaucrats.

A smell like something that was once good. This suitcase, a gift from someone now long dead. We hate moving in a caravan enough to give shit up.

We hate blanking out and never waking up enough to relinquish every item made of atoms that we owned, every flake of gold turned up or down.

All the messages a man can send, each particle of tint or lead. The only knowing is locked in metacarpal clouds, bruises that shine the light off silver.

The Chama and her mom

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