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…. We steal celestial moments, thread our words through belt loops touched only by gods light years away. We call names. Fall apart. Whistle and wait for the echo of our own syllables. The stars are pin-prick cat prints on … Continue reading
Come, sit a spell in the citadel and help me coral (core all) my syll- a -bulls. Dey got sharp horns (and harps, shorn) and dey songs is harm, Mon -(s)izing up all this strange. You got a pair, a … Continue reading
.. drunk on gin (-sberg) and a good standing dose of Saat -chi,tea. . list -en, you can hear her syllables beg ……-in. ..
We entertain the mad. They whisper. – from “Tea Ceremony” by G.C. Waldrep .. Drink me …….(shrink me) down to nothing -ness, the best guess bliss of stirred honey, quiet leaves left. Think me ……(blink me) sane, in small stages … Continue reading
written for dVerse.