The Iron Wind, rogue wave by rogue wave, conveys a succession of Love Knievels <3.4 Hz> heaving and groaning over Mt. Sinai and Mt. Doom. Grunting because they’re hungry [masculine] and they’re hungry [feminine]. The platelets of their armour contract and expand as they hurdle. Perfect body no body. Perfect copy no copy.
Catch us, Pieter Bruegel, as we fall toward the silvered slab of the coroner, guided to our destination by a signal-to-noise ratio lower than the amperage of a lie detector’s early morning aleatory. A stray hare has wandered into the arms race, only lately recognized as a Turing Point in history.
Let us raise an intelligence in honour of the sad tortoise, whose ten-yard stare, stranded atop the podium, emulates a mountain village wiped clean by spillage. Total sushi slushy.
One man’s John Denver is another man’s best friend in high places, trained in the camps of Transmission Terriers, wire- walking the sinews of El Camino and/or the Hajj, sniffing the slopes of sine waves for survivors.
Afternoon cooled. An ice age began. Followed by a nicer age, in which The Oracle and I were unable to sleep past noon.
I recall the soufflés but not the words of my lost Love Knievel, last seen running to relieve unsightly thinking problems.