Entering the babble of the clay fields and the eccentricities of inspired incompletion. Repeatedly we were told of others, of shadows and dancing skin domes, of portable ferns pitched about by the wind, thousands of ferns that threatened to choke the blue sky green, but for us and in every direction it was only this baldly staggering broken alone, stoneware articulate, and all we could recognize was the silence of the sleeves. Exactly what was where it was left it was hardly a shit trail of a trace, the megaliths and bone-fired Schoenhuts gulched with the skin of Sonoran whip snakes — we were ready for the moon slouching forward into the cut silhouette of the gorge, more gone, our salt maps as useless as fat Walt’s old prayer mop and the river in empty remains, two bed knobs, a throat pipe, and twelve sacks of sand. We were ready for the moon. For the caves of ice and the incense of kegs sweating and the columbines, a caravan promised by the owls in the willow behind the roadhouse, hog calling, tonight at noon.
Jeffrey Little | Jump Hots in Ocean Torn Contents | Mudlark No. 47 (2012)