Now I can relax because the helicopters and machines of murder and lawsÂ and new Â laws thump into the sky, like timbers that crack under trivial boots. Â All I can (now) do is ponder crime as vague questions about my incarceration (mostly a youthful thing). Â See, now we exact vague punishments because the crimes are attached to vague clouds. Â The penalties are also gasses, some kind of gas or vapor or a kind of delicate gas (who is a ghost). Â Be specific.
The gas is the very thing birds like to beat against with their wings, the dead spirit. Â Thunder is dumb.
Thick gas, and my wings beat into the normally reserved sky. Â Helicopters sliceÂ my sunset. My bird arms whip at gasses and lift humorous characters, because who don’t want to laugh? Â Wanna Â laugh? Â Aircraft, man. The helicopters sway to my neighborhood, ejecting sleep things. Â From the ground, they look like burt cigar butts with a screaming man-face.
And then we can do nothing but sleep. Â As gasses pool up on our ankles, chewing oxygens.
In a gagging bubble of gas, warriors get a few moments of sleep. Sleep is important.Â If this could be considered sweet sleep? Â No. Â Farmers are good in the morning, plowing before sunrise. Â Farm-clothing! Â But in my heart, a disgrace. Â Can you see?
Otherwise, Â gas clogs my mouth. Â New gasses gauze-wrap my eyes. Â Gasses clog.
Text and Images Â© Andrew Auten – All Rights Reserved