The howling wolves call out to my opinions
curious about reshaping the cats’ rotten melody.
You nest all the Cuban-adjectives, give them sweat to drink,
and make orphan shadows out of fabric teeth.
My defect Spanish became a worm.
Clouds trim their hair but don’t know why they giggle.
One day, the spiders will possess 20,000 senses,
and 1% metamorphosis.
Did you envision enough realms knowing that the unknown is bending?
Slice open the falcon’s stomach,
pick at the decay of its glowing light,
wouldn’t you wish to join our medicine-man and hear all about his sacred journeys?
Let’s dig out the past and dip it in spoiling water.
Let’s dig out the present and over-douse on life.
Let’s dig out the future and dance around the hollow atoms.
Add it up and what do you get?
A tarot card named Death: one to all and as above & so below for all.
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