untitled prosepome: august '98

Plod, plod, scrunch, scrunch we think it's all the same. Aerodynamic paint scraping by a reminiscence of a brain itch, I thought it I heard it. The pebbles halo out on us just to keep the picture steady but I don't know why my ears haven't started leaking grey wax. Actually hearing the wind reminded my nose to smell Virginia August -- another reminscence but the magic of my adopted world is the novelty of its antiques. The red clay is aboriginal ichor, I've said it before, so has Arthur Miller. Now I remember why the sleeping collective tangs me. I may normally need sense-bricks but a single note catches more my love.