Now is the time to be creative, to create

                 Angels transcend your eyes. Holy, hole-less, pure brilliant white wings beat slowly, imperceptibly. Wings wider than your peripheral vision. Your eyes cannot wait. You do not live a length of time that could allow a complete sensual perception of a single angel's wing.

Whirls of grey in the white cloud dust, you are mist and skin. You are expanding toward every edge of the Earth's sky. We are on the sunny side. Celestial rotation is on pause. Gravity is on pause.

Pause yourself, please. You feel about in your soft and hollow body. I name your name. I cannot feel your body.

I want you to know, you are waiting on me and I am waiting on you. Your skin feels like mine. The wet, far clouds are cold. We are wet and far and cold. We are waiting on the wind and the fire light.

I am falling back to the Earth. I am falling toward a green, wet land.




You pick up a hammer by the dark wooden handle. You grip in firmly. You lift it high above your head. You stare intently at the surface before you. With all of your strength, you bring the steel hammer head down onto the silver shining serene lamb.

Your face breaks, a reflection of breathtaking destruction. Your hands fall apart. By annihilating your most precious possession, you have taken yourself from what has possessed you.



Negro hands walking on Road 220 look like Walt Whitman's dire fantasy. Black and purple iridescent geese honk and take flight at 6:07 in the evening over the shady sloshing River.

William Telle sits on a pine rocking chair on the porch of his rented one-room cabin whittling a knife. The song birds whistle the daylight goodbye. William grimaces at his aching hands. He knows he will not finish his whittling before dark. He sighs and gazes upon the dim lavender country, his attention drawn to the trembling silhouettes of bare branches. A dank breeze drapes wild strands of brown hair across William's right eye and ruby nose. He closes his lids and breathes deeply.

He wanders inside and lies, back down, onto the straw-filled mattress. He feels cold inside. He opens his pants and feels his penis. He strokes it. It becomes erect. He pants loudly.  His body tightens and convulses. He rolls onto his side and comes onto the dirty wooden floor. His jaw hangs open. He cannot think. He lies limp on his back and begins to fall asleep.

Walk Whipman pulls out a long lead pencil and sketches the eastern horizon. He is an hour's walk west of Durham. He has a noon meeting there with First National president, John Quinn. He has a fire-roasted rabbit leg and three ripe wild tomatoes in his pack.

Dick President wipes his hiney in the fourth floor ballroom restroom at the Paramount Hotel.

There is a dollop of blood on the otherwise clean bright tiles and the porcelain sink.




The 804 year-old Tree begins to worry that its time is up. It is saddened that this was its first conscious thought. It wishes that it had memories. It wonders what to refer to itself as, other than I, me, or myself. It is aware of the thousands of other trees and plants in this forest. It does not know it is the oldest. Every thought it has seems to last a lifetime. It does not think in English. It does not think in words or symbols.

Grreeenn and brroowwnn fill the air, and white water and dense light are ugly rainbows. Juicy beetles and crunchy ants and pulpy grubs wriggle and writhe on the litter of leaves and seeds and needles.
I hear ambient hissing and whispering in the forest. I see nothing. My feet crackle and squish the rotting ground with each careful step. The sky shifts south, a wheel of gray and white splashed by blue.



I

am not crazy.

I am

going to

the Farmers' Market today,

while it is open.


I am not obsessed.

I am not possessed.

I am not mentally ill.

I am not mentally retarded.


I am in full control of my actions.

I exercise my free will.

I am morally pure and correct.


I am not depressed. I just don't want to work on anything difficult. I want all my problems solved in one easy step. I don't want any responsibility or judgement.

I want some perfect soft grass. I want homeostasis, perfect health. I want to be perfect forever.

I want to be pure light. I want to be God.

I want a chauffeur. I want a beautiful loving wife. I want an endless supply of money that I give to every non-profit charity. Nobody needs anything anymore. Nobody wants anything.

We all eat spaghetti. We all play with Legos. We all climb a mountain. We all sleep in a big comfy tent together, happy and perfect forever.

The End <3 :p  Piepie, Sheep ewe layder {;