We
transformed it in ways that at first would have been impossible for you
to imagine, but time is an artificer and a drake, and we became quite
comfortable with things as they were, though the lights sometimes made
it hard to sleep. We no longer cried over the hepto-slink of the little
snake that lost itself in the runnels. To think: a child found it
possible to love a snake as dearly as his mother is to know: any and
all attempts at draining the crankcase were acts of forgiveness. We
kept the riots, torpedo-shaped w/feathers and No. 2 hooks, stored in
boxes in the garage. We tried to avoid direct eye contact–there was a
fear of fear, and any party we had turned into a communist party. The
weather was just that harsh, and the sun, not exactly a blood-filtre,
but close. We had a Day of the Tongue and a Day of the Mutation of Plow
& Trestle. We were hoping that you would bring the music, or at
least the venom note and harp, so we could have a final say. The owls
carried us away for weeks at a time. The double-breasted jacket you
left behind was as unkempt as a sterecoraceous bear. When the fog wore
it, each gesture became an insurrection against itself. To think: did
you ever at night come with your holy-mouth, your terra-chute,
and bite at our napes, and insert us into your narrow holsters? We
found butterflies under our nails, but had not yet learned the words.
When one of us whistled, there was this certain risible, lapsarian
feeling–the red sun halted, we punched at one another’s throats. I do
not think we understood the proper alignments.
by Tim Earley
published in Facsicle 3
Robin Reagler 
love it.