Behind the musty shriven piss-glazed tobacco barn:
Through the pine stand is a clearing where the soft breeze, cleansed of the stink of acolytes and bleach, wafts the scent of green loblolly and erases the endless hell of sunshine sent to remind wax beings of slow dissolve and impermanence under the star. I smell a woman’s hair. I see a Doe. Blue luster. Orange wash. Sepia fix. Nothing moves save for the vibration of a chant through water. Behind me before even there exists me. Clover between my non-existent toes. Listen, before a hard rain the butter-cups and blue-bells have a prayer. Wet -yet in full view of dirt. Advance –do you feel this? Is this emotion? In the furthest possible distance the clang of the matriarch’s typically crisp bell. Sour sweat, another stellar stink, but this time primal, the underarms of a minor Goddess. Intoxicating pine needle vagina. A worm turns the soil. She of the melted permutated candle. Flickering in the center of the clearing. My sign. My calling. My signal. My sin. My torture. Disembodied hands covered in the blood perfume of screams, pleadings, chants and grieving. Bleeding teeth. Tasting rusty bronze. Cracked lids. Crepuscular pupils. Auscultation. The drums beaten by stained raw bones. Palindrome. The laughter of goats.
The reason why blinded phantom dogs bark, cold, stranded, swallowed by lost empty acres, improvising messages in the black distance of night.
Sleep is a rehearsal for Death.
Open my eyes.