kestrel - windhover - windfucker

I'm revising soft shroud. I'm glad I held on to it for a while - I can see that it's unfinished.

what I meant at the ending is - the horse (the horse birthed from the egg, which was incubated in the mouth and saved from the lava flow by the upright man who held it aloft while his ankles were stripped)

the horse walks away from the empty grounds and the stagnant pool towards the peak of the mountain. the horse walks towards heat; the mountain is erupting. the lava flows away from the horse; the horse travels up the cool side of the mountain.

this side of the mountain is cool because it is the future already here. the future has its past soft on its back like cool loam and verdant moss, breaking under the hooves.

the far side of the mountain is the present, an eruption which excoriates vomits its hot self out and eats the cone, eats out its whole structure so that it crests and collapses like a wave, on the calming back of which the future has settled.

whether to believe that reflection of myself as terrifying, the unconscious destroyer. all I was doing was writing my dreams.

-what if somebody saw this? what about my partner? my livelihood? my residency status?

-but it's not real! I don't own a pair of giant centipedes!

a little shop called the unicorn

coming home from the Junior College in a cab I see I can just follow my thoughts, make the "fields of sober lilies washing their hands", and windows, windoscopy, windoscope, endow, wend, winnow, minnow, blue nail parings snailing the windows, etc (but only the word 'etc' not the actual etc, just the impression of its possibility).

I think about the scene in the Wrath of Khan - or Flash Gordon - something about memories, please don't take my memories, it's taken my whole life to collect them - feeling shocked at this - is this what one has to do to be an adult? To do the work of collecting memories? Or one would be empty.

Thinking in the cab there is no empty, that's a lie, just look around, nothing's empty. And the memories won't disappear or get used up, just the big ones maybe will dissolve to reveal their components, or one will see the small ones in between them. Possibly the big ones are myths which inhibit memory, anyway. And language - there's no limit on that, either. The stream of possible combinations. Understanding it to be true but uneasy, it seems like a trick.

fields of sober lilies wash their hands