(Untitled 2. From echolocation).
War is a place all thoughts have left. Birds crash when wind caves in. Green salad fields sprinkled with blood and bone. The cigarette drops from your hands as you water plants with gasoline.

Mountains wait on the bodies of reptiles. Snakes run from burning skins. Mountains fall into lakes. The ground hangs on to trees as boats to sails.

Nipples get hot as craters, beards are stroked, eyebrows pinched, faces taken off, eyes recruited by cameras, decades of time stolen from bee pollen and clover harvests returned to the apiaries.

You know a language well if it does things you donít have control over. Bring me the words without meanings, words all meanings have abandoned, sentenced to meaninglessness.

Fortunetellers smile in magazine columns. A mystery hero steals the fantasies of people he likes the look of.