They're all in the garden with way-out maps

I. Temporary,

like a hotel room; it really is. Very few places or people ever truly feel like home. In the meantime, culture proceeds on the back of such a sensitive, youthful nation. Is anything certain then?

II. A hundred strong

strung-out high heels hurting:  “You can keep the cash.  It isn't worth it. " They’re not dumb. They’re not out of the loop. They have their own personal wishes and dreams, and particular things they like to eat (usually water and peas). People plead, “Stop singing, please! You’re ruining the music.” But they go on singing anyway, and in doing so give kickoff to new edges who turn on restless hubs truly in It. After word dances dance and ever do they daydream clock-less suspension bridges for words in mouths so deep the nipple tickles the tonsils and leaks. The alluring smell cresting the air is not the New Dumb or flicker glint of tanned legs bearing only crumbs and colorless sand. No, this is sort of fun, being in the New York Post in the time at hand getting free with all our lips hips and hands swooning, spiraling, becoming Grand.

What body will be?  What will the body be?  What be the body will? And is sogo.

III. Whilst smearing lipstick on strange statuettes

all in a row I had a feeling they could see me but I couldn’t see them. Like stars, their nipples and eyes. Ah, what thoughts in dancers reborn: We speak telepathically in photographs and undressed words, Alternate definitions and daydream dialects in a strange land America with stirring moles and ear handles farther back, down-field or interior where we are The Eye. It is so tragic and simultaneously so indescribably great that I am obliged to stop now and then and laugh in Its face.

Chris Weige | California, TX. | Sagacity 08