III.

Gas a starter, kill a tail. Mopeds zip around me. I sneer. Lift a jackass onto a big motor and watch how swiftly it collapses. Patch a coin and bottle a breath. In Latin I shall speak. Or pretend to. I fix a way to handle it.

 

        Cornerstones, markers, and peril on a railroad tie makes me seasick. Catch hell in your hand. Stand there. Hold it. Observe it. Drop it and go for it again to replenish a lost idea that used to be there, alive, giving a friend a piece of the findings from a lost ship in the bottom of a lost ocean. What treasures packed in galleys are imminent, requiring careful handing. Delicacies can’t go unnoticed. Lost horizons found on the beach hiding under some brown, wet sand. Sailed from the coast and glistened at a remote part you’ve never witnessed, nor even read about. History books laugh at your stupidity.

        Touching down and a patrol made up of fine guards and then end your stay at Hotel Breakers. Read a magazine read the pictures. See the pretty faces. Journeymen who’ve become countrymen after attending a new college never expect things to get better from it, 

RIVER BED   7

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