the sky is as bruised as over-ripe fruit, as toothy as a venus fly trap. man, the cage of the sky. the cage of skin, as bruised as the slur across your face. but i look at all the black & blues of today & it ain't so bad. this life has some teeth in it, to gnash, stalagtite versus stalagmite. i mean, i'm trapped in this cave-in, hallucinating angels, so it can't be all bad. minus, minus. i mean, this life as slime-y as seaweeds dragging across your legs when swimming. spasm & think about that which lurks beneath the surface, think about how that ought to be you. how that sure is you, yes sir & salute, you good soldier. tentacle to brow, salute. whistle in the dark if you have to, charles wallace. this here mordicai is going to play the angel's X game.