• Vol. 08
  • Chapter 09

Goodbye. Hello. To all we might know.

A first glance wants an Italianate response, much like applications of arches on a ranch house or a hilly tableau behind a Bertazzoni ranging in corners of recast well waters. Do we know? Can we show our hand with an interpretation of an interpretation of an interpretation? Composed or raw it's not a draw or an either or. Either and. Cheese as sand. Fires smoldering between trees and man. The signature (to me) is part of the picture and esta Maria is a Rodriguez crafting an accordian dueting with a guitar -- a triad of a tea -- the chicken stops to see in the middle ground between lost and found, pecking at the waving goodbye or hello to all we might know. The green tops of half drunk rhymes speak volumes rolling towards or away from sunsets that rise over sunrises that set across chapters of boiling roiling kettles with mettle mixed with metal tastes of half dome cheese grates. Red brick greenfields cut out clouds. Every time we write from a now it's heard out loud. The music of the mammary (missing or simply contained in a foreship apron) tripping up bands of brothers only one sister and at the last drifter. A swirling frame contains volumes. It all remains quite quiet buzzing tearstains barely visible. We are hungry for what remains. Disembarking. I hear the strains of waving grains. Goodbye. Hello. To all we might know. The refrain is an unset list of free radical mist. Anything but automatical. Goodbye. Hello. To all we might know.