these shadows cling on with their little velcro paws, pulling me up & into the treehouse. a rusted tin can filled with nightcrawlers there served as the cauldron, the waterlogged pornographic magazines as grimoires. & the things we summon up almost made us safe from the sphynxy horrors that prowled about the jungle floor, the flew above the jungle canopy. so we took our pocket knives (& pellet guns) & a-hunting we would go. shaking our tiny fists. i made a cat o' nine tails out of what was inside a tackle box found in the garage: fish hooks & plastic line, tied to the end of a stick. my inky friends grew agitated with the approaching sounds of riding lawn mowers, but i quelled their terrors as they had calmed mine, & we held steady till the end.