Mountains not-mountains in a ghost map of Sufi box cars, crux the alcove geocentric, a field of portals and procession hub anode, geode, falling of itself only to rise once again like a rebus on an ark set for un-time, archipelago in situ, with a single blue skeleton key making the locks there lock their hold, in-sound out hovering atop a dimensional ring toss while strings keep the eleven ends open, bloom-time for ouzo and a caravan cartography, hoodoo when the land ever under opens its after ever — the organic, the absolute.
Jeffrey Little | Bone Salad Contents | Mudlark No. 47 (2012)