I will crush your social construct battle-ax with the force of two thousands leopard skinned witch doctors. I will chew your breakfast and spit it into the mouths of the dragon child\'s Budha natured fan club. Eat my dirt crusted flesh splintered into shards of desecrated deliciousness; Dipped into the clitoris of a Marilyn lookalike contest winner. Sheila is my winged vixen. Her tribal strands collide with the benevolent violence of henchmen disguised as spirit guides. With canes we strike the passers by; our eyes fixed on the molded enterprise we forged into shapeless forms of distrusting analogues. I cried then shifted my physical self into a state of smaller yet grander stature and hid inside the forgotten closet. She soothed me with an iron will and claws against my throat; tossing my rag-doll body into the flames of her desire. My Sweet lady of the dance, I’ll never understand you. But that was then and now my eyelids have withered away. My bones vibrate constantly ready to eject from my body. Where they will return to they do not tell me. My candles light cold flames and my soup is but a stone. I envy the moss that once grew upon its’ side. A man had realized I existed the other day but flinched then died and turned into dust that blew away with the wind. It made a young woman cough someplace on the other side of the world. Breaking off twigs for dinner I contemplate the ages of man and our inventive nature. Spools of thought preserve me mummified in that very spot until the winds cease and her caress flows through it all into the impossible spaces; stirring the pot and mixing the chemicals with the salt of tears and compassion of the mother. I break apart into many new things with many tangled webs and concurrent timelines. My river pours outs into every seam and embarks upon it’s ending.