Now I can relax because the helicopters and machines of murder and laws and new  laws thump into the sky, like timbers that crack under trivial boots.   All I can (now) do is ponder crime as vague questions about my incarceration (mostly a youthful thing).  See, now we exact vague punishments because the crimes are attached to vague clouds.  The penalties are also gasses, some kind of gas or vapor or a kind of delicate gas (who is a ghost).  Be specific.

The gas is the very thing birds like to beat against with their wings, the dead spirit.  Thunder is dumb.

Thick gas, and my wings beat into the normally reserved sky.  Helicopters slice my sunset. My bird arms whip at gasses and lift humorous characters, because who don’t want to laugh?  Wanna  laugh?  Aircraft, man. The helicopters sway to my neighborhood, ejecting sleep things.   From the ground, they look like burt cigar butts with a screaming man-face.

And then we can do nothing but sleep.  As gasses pool up on our ankles, chewing oxygens.

In a gagging bubble of gas, warriors get a few moments of sleep. Sleep is important. If this could be considered sweet sleep?  No.  Farmers are good in the morning, plowing before sunrise.   Farm-clothing!   But in my heart, a disgrace.  Can you see?

Otherwise,  gas clogs my mouth.  New gasses gauze-wrap my eyes.  Gasses clog.

Text and Images © Andrew Auten – All Rights Reserved