uncoiling vengeful laughter sits like a blackbird on a wire. pensive and reposed. the lead ball came hurling in off the electromagnetic combustion of a storm. i watched nature become the whipping post of its progeny. then you believe in anything close to the summers on the atlantic. dust bowl fields burn august red, november too. it is a comedy of errors that you never see until a dead bird beats his wings, there is no merit in any attempt to rectify. that is when the wild things bloom. thats when the bottom of everything meets you in an austere alleyway that is narrow, narrow, then you are lucky for the dead weight trouble, walking a tight rope wire, sitting like a black bird, taking a fall.