Skip Fox

A drift in the tongue

Invisible architectures of tongue, vasculatures of dream, a devastatingly
brilliant series of dry executions, its cycles synchronize all of mind's
correspondence to the sacred lunar phases, self-correcting for azamuthal
variation, a clock set for spontaneous combustion, otherwise the light of
the moon would strike the tongue so seldom that any relationship would
be negligible. Like ambient poetry. See what I mean? It is the mind's
thumb, can grasp, as a tool, or that other instrument, also bridled, brings
torque to world, twist of diphthong, to declaration, annihilation of entire
populations, harangues, blubbering confessions, and almost unspeakable
lusts. The opposable tongue. Of all nature's organs, the most variable, at
least in terms of weight, this gives it density in our consideration, or is it
weightless, floating through a gallery, all one Rauchenberg, continuous
areas of conjunctions, his mind in folds, and on the floor and ceiling it
continues until you realize that you might not even be inside any more

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