Keep missing echos. Miss 'em bad sometimes.
Two wrong turns took us back down into the valley so we stopped for a smoke in the cemetery by the abyssion sills. Every time we go we look to see if anybody's left anything new on the graves. Wilted flowers, bleached photographs, plastic saviors of every shape and color melted in the sun, all the same in different ways.
***** found a mirror and killed it. Typical. Says won't stop until they pay but frankly the mirrors have been more than fair. Don't see them trying to break ***** but we don't agree on this. ***** on this hemophile fad, trailing the cool kids so no sense in rationalizing a clot. No sense at all, laid back against a hunched stone angel shifting in soft mud under my weight, sticking, watching ***** twirl through the tall grass trailing blood like Pollack in or on ecstasy, like sprinklers on timers in backyards in abandoned cities. Paints the tombstones polka-dot, tires out and collapses on the ossuary door, unhinged and tangled in moss.
Unhinged, tangled in moss. Says it so it is.
Every time we come down here more tombs are broken.
I don't know what's getting in.
I don't know what's getting out.

Love,
the dead minotaur

Labels: vistas