Dead ducks are dubious, the feeling creepy. Decrepitude everywhere, a flood. The known, pond fish that come belly up in the water. Hey there, fuckstick! Over here! —— the man at the sports bar to those of dissimilar gender. No absolute anything. Sun sick, poles shrinking. Copulas bring on migraine. Phantoms slinking into the shadow of a turn in a back lane are no longer menacing. There's worse. Sidereal imaginations, conceptions doggone, dimensions unequivocal. Everything getting older by turns.
A banyan tree never known wholly, presence half-suspected, whose aerial roots hold me down as they do the tree. Saree sliding off shoulder where it is supposed to sit, doing this continuously as if a life were being led entirely independent of the wearer, ontology going berserk too. Existence apologetic. After you, if you please, she murmurs, epocheing. Don't want to be western, the east is sliding some place else and, dear god, there's north and south too. Moreover, beauty can be dismantled —— stop that shrugging, shoulders straight! No urge to stick pins into cockroaches and, also, the reptile's eye is on me. The python draws the gaze to its dream of under the banyan tree. Say I am Rama, why not? See what happens. Owls flying past, fist-sized, off-white, alight silently on trees in the circle of streetlights. Pointed pebbles get in shoes, so stop walking. And the wind took the traces away. Going to the dogs, or heaven, or hell, what's worse, the voice in the wilderness is now a boom in the head: Fold up the world with one glance. Go!
