#74

without hesitation it comes dripping from the fountainhead in true jibba jabba fashion until the conscience revs its grinch engine and the hours squirm away in catatonia deadlock and philosophy leans the heavy book on the gate like an anvil but when the sun streams in the pages burn up in the river like kerosene junk packed like a diamond torch in the crust of your world where only future miners hang in narrow shafts hoping the distant past doesnt crumble down upon them and pin them to a forgotten memory or an unacceptable desire far from soup on the surface where impulse rules in playful firefights and frivolous marriage is the law of the land at the moment and the moment is king until the gods from below break the surface and speak so loudly no one perceives their voices