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.
there might be something in the air besides the static, but all i can see is the fuzz of snow from the television set. worn on my brow like a tin foil halo. crown. whatever. stare at the ceiling & watch the dimples of the firmament swirl by, smoke rings in a tornado. what a world, what a world. the part i call myself like an over-fed tick under the arm pit of the ape everybody else calls me. a arachnid with a big black belly-- or a starfish, suckers caught in the skin, burrowed deep with small claws. because a starfish can be cut into three pieces, sundered & seperated & somehow still live. incomplete but regenerated. can what it torn apart be rejoined? we'll take scissors to ourselves to see if it can. maybe i'll quiet the wings buzzing in my ear & go sit next to jenny & see what can be seen.