THE OPEN MIC CYPHER

[Split]

as the earth stutter steps in twenty-fourths, adrift in waves about its pivot, continuous waves of citizenry work reports, shudder and storm to batten down the hatching cranium cases, shells, attic planks, drown synapses in mattress-lathes, rainy days laden with whores on silhouetted wooden racks of monster-infested doors, imagined masks, that somber sense of childhood violent-playful innocence, which slumbers cells, drives a splinter well, but sets and dwells within us. schizo phase. or around us, if you crave the flash of bigger picture frames. once you've met, I plan to never visit, Miss or Mister, counter with- just passing through this, drifter counting glasses and rounding exits down to surrounding towns, just out of glimpse of tacit city limits. sum up tire pressures with my drifter gauge. found theres more to her than a mountain's accent. rigid marble, gargle gray Menthols, a filtered symbol. severed sackfuls of gravelled missives masked in dead end marvels. more than just this, sculpted artful, carpal strain of paint-matched clay to a classic, vivid visage. I think you're beautiful- listen me, Erin- and could prove to you strung between so few words, such sparse a sudden heartfelt narrative, you'd be impressed on the basis of my usual clean artistic merit.