Its a done deal no doubt. Dirty snow in a coconut husk. Still we sit it through, stick a smile on the barb, not so razor-like now after centuries of free falling buttocks, & breathing in the heavy smoke of a torched hedgehog. Hey Canelutti, he calls from the side of the barn he has been painting. His movement through the longer part of half mowed grass is uncomplicated, - the careless, self compensating stagger of a practiced drunk the morning after. Though the sun is behind his head he winces from the unguided pressure of dreams inside his skull, pulsing like magnetic water in the pinhole courses their schemings have poked through his mind. Yes? , I say throwing a broken cigarette at the stump of a half buried swivel chair to warn him of the hazard. He trips nevertheless zigzagging akwardly as the tobacco splits from the butt. He sits up coolly on the only flower we have seen for miles. It was only a dandelion, the wind says, leaning against my brow. Fuck you, I whisper back, it was the last coffee orchid. The panzers are upon us, my friend says from his seat. Naturally, I reply. In the smudge of black-red dirt in my palm is a kingdom. There a small thing lives drinking sunlight from a porcelain thimble. No armor can resist its light yet say the word love & even a mouse can gnaw its ice. That is why I'll be washing it off. I have need for simpler things. Like fresh warm bread to take to the sorcerer who splits mountains with the most basic gruel. Hello, buenos dias says the sorcerer arriving on cue, any bread for me? I slingshot him off the chimney with some telepathic garter & a replica of the philosophers stone. An ace of spades flies up turns into a swarm of toothpick sized swans & then a scrambled bunch of no good flowers. You ready?, the wind says. Fuck this!, I exclaim, simultaneously wondering what the hell has gotten over me as a cloud explodes. Lord almighty. Arrivederci!! - the sorcerer waves, hastily transporting a loaf that looks to be in the shape of an ass. My drunken friend has still not moved but those two words are like churchbells for him. Fuck this? No my friend - Fuck that. , he says glibly. I lay me down, my hand atop the roots of a giant mango tree that sends wasps to my hammock. I'll fix the broken cigarette when I wake up. It'll be a different place then & I'll most probably feel like a smoke. I know where it is & I can see it wont be raining.
