The trumpet scatters the awful sound carved on the backs of waves, the slaves of nature. Blood flowed through a bug gestating amongst red lights. I'll cough it out, to the south, back into the water of my balloon neck. How many handless can reach for so little? The answer is beneath the sand--dig down, dig deep, dig down, deep.
Water leaked through the earth, skewed in shape, parcelled to hungry ghosts. Their thin lipped glasses of rubber ice skates are raining into the navel with a memory of ripened shoulders ready for the wild plants' invasion.
M.K. Shibek, Tim Iserman, Kristy Rose
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