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Description
This stone was passed and we came to pass it off.

Bigger stones grow in among us.

---

Inside, when the red sea parts between a pin-throat and a muscle, they struggle like a gum eraser, one or the other, the smaller, takes to the larger. They circle ‘round some sun, then some something else bigger – and then strip. The inside reunites and the lungs re-rejoice in so much a tug and a tug, a sigh or a gasp, something's-going-somewhere near a fair trade.

We worked together. Far from her bed, some distances twisted. She's on one moment, once, then she's off. For just one little second, I could pick her by the ears and whisper my waiting things. The brew was strong and sweet to give, had sat ripe as age between the sheets of my tongue until she'd shrunk quietly. I learned to decide then, the most important thing she's taught me is to decide.

I noticed that my bed was this half of a room. If I felt like I was too far west, then I'd step out of bed and be too far east. The door was eastward, and perhaps it was the haste with which I left the room, but my walk outdoors was a slingshot. I was knocked off by its clean carved planes, the sitting limestone to the woodshavers block. I chose the unrolling Chicago.

I'd sat nights of dreams, seeing  Kubrick prop his feet on the four legged monolith in his living space. The fire placed before him, a grill straight below him. If you can break the line, you surround the city - enough glass, and you know that you will crush every living building, slipping through the window. It's a price, but, hey, Vincent gave his name to it.

We knew the tripod Chicago, the sitting pyramid, how the Anchor had been rolling ashore. How it founded a stepful of tails until its patrons had yanked on every atom towards every shore, sifted stone and done.

As far as I was concerned, "Sand is a could've been, had she lived long enough." So many of her stones passed her. All my sleep asceticism told me so.

The posh crops and air cycle through her, spilling a sea of c’ncrete for the Great Anchor to drag - a leaving sea of seas. Its trail would dig the pool of the Lakes and the tails would tighten much above and anchor when again where they must.

We'd have our windows and our blood would clot in its systems, and chunk up a small suction. "I literally love you," she says and I'd pass into her and she'd pass the stones and the bigger ones. She'd pass three-C bigg ones, delivered, joints and all in multiples of three, doubled or tripled, times et cetera. And they would have their suction, too, would be tight enough to tip the world into the hearth. Whether or not oxygen could sip in or slip by that blood, all gaps would draw a gasp.

It never stopped.

---

First it was six, but now it’s three. One, then three fashioned at the uterus, magnified castles cut from the moat, once fastened by the motherland. We’ll have settled like sifted weight, and every few months we’ll sift again and find them, our rockies. We’ll see whatever shit we gotta see. None of it's light,all of it  sand. It’s every smoke we could have dropped upon them. All the stones dug from her unwashed scoop-womb, pass whatever sin. They won’t even inherit this virginity.

I don’t know how to raise one in the city. I’ve tried to think of lighter things, but a child's too weak to hog a balloon. They know the Chicago ghosts, are angelballoons. They know the letting go familiar. It's flown up, you're grown up! It’s back down and back by then: your time comes, drifted, growned, and off you go! Your turn, you old prariedog!

I can’t pull it. Especially when my sister buys gifts like sandcastle molds. What a way to teach my boy to be a lazy guy. Even if you use a mold as a pail, you’ll still have your house for a slashed price at a speedy speed. I can’t have him around any headbanded hoodlums, but the worst parents are the ones who let their children know they are in blindfolds. That’ll dent my boy, I mean, like the luxury pail. And it’s the easiest way to lose your religion, to watch a balloon.

Besides, if a wave hits Chicago, they'll build it right over. They’ll just drop a mold right into the sand and let it dry, hard as an anchor, and we’re back in business! That’s no place for young flesh. No one’s gonna tell my boy that “milk don’t spoil if you don’t know numbers.” The city's just too strong and the kidlets let go. He'll grow up before it falls back down, and that ghost is gonna fall right on his head. Bloody red balloon, I’m thirsty.

Before no one had tasted of her, the earth took notice and she could feel the tug at her skirt. She was fifteen then and I was seventeen. She'd look at a folk and a friend or any selfish portrait right in the eyes and they’d all share shakes, but she wouldn’t dare peek at the ground.

Her bed was a farm itself, upstairs, above the swing. She'd walk down and rock with her drink in an early dusk, the sugar safer, sweeter.  Knowing she was the animal beneath her bed was a bleaching sober, and then I was another drink, a mind kept alight, set the wood to crackling in her belly.

Night drew her to the porch more and she sat west on her swing. And in the next morning, she stepped off. She fed the earth her best instead of teasing through its pipes, all along, blankly at the rising horizon.  It had her taste; she preferred the warm, the natural red, the fleshy juice where kidneys shread on grapes. There was no skin to make the better yellow wine, even at times.

We all knew as well as I that her drink could not be put down and done. You might as well settle and sit for it. She’s there and plans are as good as anything. Now it’s set in - Chicago’s a fresh old dog.

---

The hardened knowledge sitting beneath space’s feet. I knew I’d soon run into Stan and he’d tell me all the dirty things he puts his feet in, and I’d believe him. He’d tell me it’s “nothing but pickin' up and moving. Here's the road, here's my trail; hand the pail and toss the trowel. Picking up and moving, that's all it’s ever been.” Then I wandered, and I’d wind up on his words

“If you need some boxes, I've some left from the move
of all the papers we made and are falling through
I took Chicago out and shot her
like something you'd love
and the Great Lake's water
ran like blood from elevators.”

Then all seagulls would flock in white clots, at the green ‘n grey smell.

---

Often there’s a marriage, a festival; but the healing stacks in bonds and split ends. Perms is perms, everything’s a little final. It's what sticks with when you forget. You’re chewing the fat, ‘cause your perm's still in the belly! They'll find it if it’s so, weed it, like the cat in the coffee room. Everything quit is kept somewhere to forget, somewhat, a little at least.

Perms is perms, as long as you're around. You just forget what you're looking at. can be anything else.

Perms is perms, in the last forms.

No one told me how to do it, how to undress the house. How the breasts of soil are as completely fertile. I never started with the land, I never farmed, I grew on a slab. No one showed me how to seduce the land and undress what’s next. I’m burrowing through the only option:

Take off the dirt, tear off the skirt, undress her – it’s the way to address yourself. No one even told me how to undress my girl. The books all said a two-fingered twist, then she’d help.

But, how could we know? First it's kissing, the slow clash, and suddenly the egg's slipped from the pan, and you're not. But your lips are rolled and lips are lit and something's fallen from the bunk. We gather heat like the umbrella of our neck, the heat collects so much - you'[re heavily perspired] but the sheets are gonna lift and fill, then cough again like the sunken skirt of fertile earth. The breath-on-breath molding, a tulip, a gasp. A jellyfish kicking in ballroom two’s.

I don't know anything. Nothing about unlocking crossed legs or tuggs on waking skin. Or your hungry piss. What else can you drink? Rolling and pulling curling, the driest things wait to be broked. Flattening my chest into your long seat.

She feels preoccupied when I walk, when I am in the dirt flecks of the cobble path. I have been her new environment. But when she steps off, we're inside the woods together.  We're hitching the same way, besides.

Description
This stone was passed and we came to pass it off.

Bigger stones grow in among us.

---

Inside, when the red sea parts between a pin-throat and a muscle, they struggle like a gum eraser, one or the other, the smaller, takes to the larger. They circle ‘round some sun, then some something else bigger – and then strip. The inside reunites and the lungs re-rejoice in so much a tug and a tug, a sigh or a gasp, something's-going-somewhere near a fair trade.

We worked together. Far from her bed, some distances twisted. She's on one moment, once, then she's off. For just one little second, I could pick her by the ears and whisper my waiting things. The brew was strong and sweet to give, had sat ripe as age between the sheets of my tongue until she'd shrunk quietly. I learned to decide then, the most important thing she's taught me is to decide.

I noticed that my bed was this half of a room. If I felt like I was too far west, then I'd step out of bed and be too far east. The door was eastward, and perhaps it was the haste with which I left the room, but my walk outdoors was a slingshot. I was knocked off by its clean carved planes, the sitting limestone to the woodshavers block. I chose the unrolling Chicago.

I'd sat nights of dreams, seeing  Kubrick prop his feet on the four legged monolith in his living space. The fire placed before him, a grill straight below him. If you can break the line, you surround the city - enough glass, and you know that you will crush every living building, slipping through the window. It's a price, but, hey, Vincent gave his name to it.

We knew the tripod Chicago, the sitting pyramid, how the Anchor had been rolling ashore. How it founded a stepful of tails until its patrons had yanked on every atom towards every shore, sifted stone and done.

As far as I was concerned, "Sand is a could've been, had she lived long enough." So many of her stones passed her. All my sleep asceticism told me so.

The posh crops and air cycle through her, spilling a sea of c’ncrete for the Great Anchor to drag - a leaving sea of seas. Its trail would dig the pool of the Lakes and the tails would tighten much above and anchor when again where they must.

We'd have our windows and our blood would clot in its systems, and chunk up a small suction. "I literally love you," she says and I'd pass into her and she'd pass the stones and the bigger ones. She'd pass three-C bigg ones, delivered, joints and all in multiples of three, doubled or tripled, times et cetera. And they would have their suction, too, would be tight enough to tip the world into the hearth. Whether or not oxygen could sip in or slip by that blood, all gaps would draw a gasp.

It never stopped.

---

First it was six, but now it’s three. One, then three fashioned at the uterus, magnified castles cut from the moat, once fastened by the motherland. We’ll have settled like sifted weight, and every few months we’ll sift again and find them, our rockies. We’ll see whatever shit we gotta see. None of it's light,all of it  sand. It’s every smoke we could have dropped upon them. All the stones dug from her unwashed scoop-womb, pass whatever sin. They won’t even inherit this virginity.

I don’t know how to raise one in the city. I’ve tried to think of lighter things, but a child's too weak to hog a balloon. They know the Chicago ghosts, are angelballoons. They know the letting go familiar. It's flown up, you're grown up! It’s back down and back by then: your time comes, drifted, growned, and off you go! Your turn, you old prariedog!

I can’t pull it. Especially when my sister buys gifts like sandcastle molds. What a way to teach my boy to be a lazy guy. Even if you use a mold as a pail, you’ll still have your house for a slashed price at a speedy speed. I can’t have him around any headbanded hoodlums, but the worst parents are the ones who let their children know they are in blindfolds. That’ll dent my boy, I mean, like the luxury pail. And it’s the easiest way to lose your religion, to watch a balloon.

Besides, if a wave hits Chicago, they'll build it right over. They’ll just drop a mold right into the sand and let it dry, hard as an anchor, and we’re back in business! That’s no place for young flesh. No one’s gonna tell my boy that “milk don’t spoil if you don’t know numbers.” The city's just too strong and the kidlets let go. He'll grow up before it falls back down, and that ghost is gonna fall right on his head. Bloody red balloon, I’m thirsty.

Before no one had tasted of her, the earth took notice and she could feel the tug at her skirt. She was fifteen then and I was seventeen. She'd look at a folk and a friend or any selfish portrait right in the eyes and they’d all share shakes, but she wouldn’t dare peek at the ground.

Her bed was a farm itself, upstairs, above the swing. She'd walk down and rock with her drink in an early dusk, the sugar safer, sweeter.  Knowing she was the animal beneath her bed was a bleaching sober, and then I was another drink, a mind kept alight, set the wood to crackling in her belly.

Night drew her to the porch more and she sat west on her swing. And in the next morning, she stepped off. She fed the earth her best instead of teasing through its pipes, all along, blankly at the rising horizon.  It had her taste; she preferred the warm, the natural red, the fleshy juice where kidneys shread on grapes. There was no skin to make the better yellow wine, even at times.

We all knew as well as I that her drink could not be put down and done. You might as well settle and sit for it. She’s there and plans are as good as anything. Now it’s set in - Chicago’s a fresh old dog.

---

The hardened knowledge sitting beneath space’s feet. I knew I’d soon run into Stan and he’d tell me all the dirty things he puts his feet in, and I’d believe him. He’d tell me it’s “nothing but pickin' up and moving. Here's the road, here's my trail; hand the pail and toss the trowel. Picking up and moving, that's all it’s ever been.” Then I wandered, and I’d wind up on his words

“If you need some boxes, I've some left from the move
of all the papers we made and are falling through
I took Chicago out and shot her
like something you'd love
and the Great Lake's water
ran like blood from elevators.”

Then all seagulls would flock in white clots, at the green ‘n grey smell.

---

Often there’s a marriage, a festival; but the healing stacks in bonds and split ends. Perms is perms, everything’s a little final. It's what sticks with when you forget. You’re chewing the fat, ‘cause your perm's still in the belly! They'll find it if it’s so, weed it, like the cat in the coffee room. Everything quit is kept somewhere to forget, somewhat, a little at least.

Perms is perms, as long as you're around. You just forget what you're looking at. can be anything else.

Perms is perms, in the last forms.

No one told me how to do it, how to undress the house. How the breasts of soil are as completely fertile. I never started with the land, I never farmed, I grew on a slab. No one showed me how to seduce the land and undress what’s next. I’m burrowing through the only option:

Take off the dirt, tear off the skirt, undress her – it’s the way to address yourself. No one even told me how to undress my girl. The books all said a two-fingered twist, then she’d help.

But, how could we know? First it's kissing, the slow clash, and suddenly the egg's slipped from the pan, and you're not. But your lips are rolled and lips are lit and something's fallen from the bunk. We gather heat like the umbrella of our neck, the heat collects so much - you'[re heavily perspired] but the sheets are gonna lift and fill, then cough again like the sunken skirt of fertile earth. The breath-on-breath molding, a tulip, a gasp. A jellyfish kicking in ballroom two’s.

I don't know anything. Nothing about unlocking crossed legs or tuggs on waking skin. Or your hungry piss. What else can you drink? Rolling and pulling curling, the driest things wait to be broked. Flattening my chest into your long seat.

She feels preoccupied when I walk, when I am in the dirt flecks of the cobble path. I have been her new environment. But when she steps off, we're inside the woods together.  We're hitching the same way, besides.