old critical column of stone
in which

in the right circumstances

a line of story is what’s wanted if not needed. a line of light that rises like an imp and flips flag-like tentacles into our guts. from there we only want to ride somewhat at one with it. or like buddies on a short trip swapping lies for a moment. wait. not that. of course. not that. a line of story must conform to the light and the likely.

it has given itself to nurturing defeat. a line of story applauds its place in the body. where watery sprites viscous and misty fly out. given back to the world its mother. longing on the concrete step. hoping to the kids the bell calls. liquid line of story skips a stony spot. spills a vacant track.

since there’s no music in a flat wall, a line of story beats on it. beats on a wall. simply at first then. works to a doubly triply beaten line of story deep in the wall’s forgetfulness. and the dancing bends to a friend in ocean’s room like a radio. supposed to dance before the song that might never turn up. rainlike in which the drum thumps tales to any sky. of any man or woman in the story line. is not simple.


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