This is what I call home: dust-burnt dirt, a rose of sandstone and bone but a rose in slow blossom. Here the space is Russian-blank (a God-great blow drier), where milk-sour ooze belly-drips from thorns and blown-brown thistles. Here I find hiding: the grass-coddled Crossings, wind- slapped & dry: The atmosphere, a cacophonous-croon clucking itself to a dun thrum. From Lone Mountain…
The Invention of Monsters by C. Dylan Bassett
Remember Dali’s half-way bodies bent to hide? The flaming animals and the angle-cat baby heterosexual? I almost missed you there in the corner examining a butterfly while the lonely blue dog not yet a monster becomes one.
Undone by C. Dylan Bassett
The body knows things before we know them. It feels them without tongue or need of drum: I knew something was gone from our home before I saw it. The door once party-painted blue (with a butter-bronze blush) was rust-thin and red. I came home, no smell of orange, no cinnamon. Only two empty wicker chairs, a forgotten view, some webbed things…
What I Have to Say by Clifton Bates
My hands are only two tendrils. I need dozens to sign what I have to say. But it’d all fall on deaf ears because it’s questionable what I have to say. Image by: Anders Sandberg
Exploring Sand by Clifton Bates
My guide, bringing up the rear, led me on by not correcting how I went. Image by: Fikret Onal