Death is an angel, baby.
An elegy, a ritual: curl your tail around your haunches, make your eyes as soft as lace, and imagine yourself as a runaway star.
The sound of ten toe beans lightly tapping. We’ll wait.
Do you know what bow shock is? It is the force of nature that hurtles you light years away from your past. History is a mystery, and there is presence in absence.
If your body is a basement that houses your heart, you must always be prepared to ask yourself: Are you harboring vermin? Have you checked for black mold? Will you be ready to evacuate when the floods come? If you know how to listen, the ghosts of dead stars will tell you that even dolphins sleep with one eye open. God is a sensual bitch and her claws are sharp as razors. Even the elders knew this much: never trust a big butt and a smile.
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Today: the color of a soured egg yolk, spiky raw aegerine, music in the key of B, the smell of sulfur, the cacaphony of sea change, and the briny musk of hound’s tongue licking your wounds.