VITAMIX

Out of its own destructive might, Saturn’s glass and concrete break off into debris. They leave a trace that light comes from. Each one shares their partial, localized information. Before you start saying this is a known shtick/trend. Our history is long, but your history’s character consists in effacing ours. Change soaks us up continuously. When a current comes at hand, we switch places like a river, heading to where the petrified cannot even imitate the moon’s movement. There’s a desire for justice. A desire that crazy, allegedly wrong, alleged aberrations won’t point at the invisible. That the self-enclosed unknown may come forward. (Indeed, it can’t speak, its language has grown in a world that casts itself in the best light. There are very few words for the silent feeling in which breath edges on pleasure.) We have an intimate chafing relationship, the air’s pressure. A long wind-bitten joy. There is a body that documents the surrounding time into itself. Color triggers its experiences. It draws perceptions into itself, into an underground space, where beings, life forms, and fleeting glancing sentiments begin. Hot worn-out spots. Underground activity is a subterranean rising. In the underground, the mater=mother is an ever remaking, rebirthed shelter. A dreamt-of shell. Growing boundlessly through the walls. What hides in serenity shows that something is missing. The amalgamation of rooms works to contract into the shape of everyone’s partner. The land’s tender care makes a delicate covenant possible, which functions by committing to its changelessness. Pigment bursts out in laughter like a yellow curtain, a blue duvet. In that sort of detergent-scented light. Needs run circles in the water surrounded by rocks. Venus worships the rose’s old roots. It acknowledges memory’s old surfaces. The rampant craw rots in a wave of rocks.