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CLOAK/1.5Northen winter and the Puritan work ethic as a much more ancient longitudinal event, a belt of boughs under which tribes labor, whiling away dark hours, long portable stackable forms of entertainment making warm walls all around them, in the minute variations, all— |
| Indian land, the massive smothering torpor and bedsore rages of their overheated homes,
beyond which there is nothing within walking distance. Both parents work, to pay for the money
they have borrowed to pay for the home and the cars to transport them away from it. Somewhere off in the infinitely distant world from which communication originates, there are happy people. |
| The graffiti writers squat in caves beside the highway, runaways so in love they paint love messages to each other on the
blasted roadside rockface. The fast road flat beneath the passionate opposing faces divides opposing colonies of lovers who share squatters' rights with pissing old veterans on walkabout, enacting and reenacting in peace their passion— then now and forever the wild love of squatting, of the dawn with its arrow wedge of ducks. |
| Treeless street lined with a long-gone company's housing a corner bar with a single fingernail of neon left alit pins one side of a vista down to the abandoned plant— the view could freeze-dry love, just suck it up into a small foil packet. Across the street from the damp rime-splashed lot beneath the overpass, on the top floor of the last unboarded building, the last occupancy unfolds in messy human heaps around an artist. |
| I am the poison-veined monster my spirit inhabits, its prison. |
| Clean extraction of the gleaming emergence, a talent twisting curling in the pincer's grip, the
clean relief of the affected tissues once sealed with satisfaction the specimen jar. |