Simple Theories

  Dawn becomes satisfied with the ash of night. It seems permanent in the country and transversing the land, but islands disappear everyday. Eke of colour from the center, presenting now as a transitive purpose. Vantage light fills the cave of sentence. Time patch not holding. A slick, ragù-voiced preamble turns grey to pink. Call it totally dope, an occasion to speak. Light supervises, your reference establishes your reference. Passage frames the esplanade and maybe you perceive. Look, tho, whales sound in the sky, big as endeavor. Ships pass, sargasso nonny nonny, but now you see transit flying like Mercury. Clearly in motion, shadows have lost momentum, more like a practice. The palimpsest looks set. Practice dawn from over night to smaller minutes still. Hold still and stiller still. You wake or think you do. Stand down, mordantly drawn frame of angels we have heard are high.

When you become a marsh, fundament weighs heavy. Marsh fancies of community share mud, weed, home, predator, and predated, and love could complete. The various searches in time maunder silly, slanting light of hunger and amplitude. Sometimes the water goes away, like opportunity or time. It's only death taped to the map. Sometimes the water becomes a flood insurgency. Shifting seems so staid. No weeds exist except you decide to recognize. Frogs wriggle into nothing while establishing just now. You know how stasis comes across at the foot of heron or egret. Beaver always a mercantile delight to further the avaricious view. You are ready to go. Your towns give up on places bred to life. Warming error of margin in red shift out of time. At least you almost stand amongst. You can stretch your anointment seeking landfill for enterprise. Drab referendum of rich colloquy with profit goes great with banishing. Beavers fit the place they made, mosquitos make diligent clouds. Why don't 

  ious deities of light and murder establishes this moiety of rumoured crisis. Warm rises like royalty on the pounce. It meets the pressured orb cold of world seen as world. The deities, yay, but hold tight. As afterthought of some middling, you watch and wait. Electrical charge represents ontological condition, except ontology doesn't exist, not yet anyway. Why should it, the battle is won and lost. A beautified bolt snaps to the clouds-- id est  deities--and sparks fly with frolicsome danger. The flash produces blind assent including, but not exclusive to, the death of Death. By all accounts, all accounts have something to say. So lightning happens, just as nothing does. Tied to this alarming chariot we have the knell of thunder. It booms with practical voice and are we fucked? Does it matter? The train-like sound travels 160 yards a second and becomes your neighbour. You must hold it all together or fetch a wildling: either way is fine. The deities, gods and goddesses we call th

  Address hill as practically there. Rising in folds from earth skin, direction applied, stars and whatnot above. Everything follows from the view or weight of going. One step forward means one step less. Bald facts become apparent. Use your legs as thinking. It takes everything in you to be one place. Trail head at the foot of the hill, or a roadway bending upward, till downward. Odd mix of satisfaction and bother. We all have further to go until right here, formerly there. Someday you will be breathless, within the peak and trough of breath.

  Snakes have it wrong and it's their own damn fault. They should have normal arms and legs--the full bloom of logical spirit--and try to be agreeable, not writhing. Snakes should smile more with glad hand, would that hurt? Could they avoid being underfoot, laying in wait, as all waiting waits for you. They bring timor mortis to tried time. Maybe keep venom and fangs to themselves, they overplay that card. You can see snakes lack basic human culture. Sound the register: snakes unhinge jaws to accommodate huge smackerels of prey, they mate in knotty tangles worse than your own, they leaven the stories of wormy deceit. Snakes can be fathomed by fear, an ancient unforgettable human trait. Cold blood exacts liability, like who you are is what you fear, even in sunlight. Every town knows its snakes in strange whiplike commotion. Dun-coloured parliamentarian contortions of snake manage fear and ostracism with nagging twist. The righteous shall clutch hard the plummeting wagon of gosh. Ni