like i would be caught dead in georgia

teargarden font p.

i'd been riding all day,
riding past the windows with their sales and engines,
the sad-voiced speakers touting tuberous wonders.

riding next to nothing with the bank clacked in it.
riding down the highway where
the shapes of chairs repeat like clack-clackerly,
velveted, doused in musk and extrinsic tastes.
tied down with bows the size of mule sides.

blown. fully. cross-roaded.

i rode down a crankhole, rustled me up some shankbratch,
dirty as any drippled touseling thing.
rode me into town and routed me out a slink and some milk.

held off on the whisting, the whiloming, the ankle-strapped
ambergris god with the plating like bitlip platinum honey-smeared
honey-glazed lip. i rode in to see him but i brought him
nothing
and for that he speared me,

shucked acreless.

acreless, i crossed enraging, irradiated. one ankle over another.

i ate six seeds.

crunch crunch. crunch. crunch crunch crunch.

not sure what scrying is

devils as scrying device

cast them out
into the seas and rivers,
pressed floodgates, coastiwde tides--
cast them out so they spin
like golden compass on dry sand,

beached. cast them out
into their never rest. hurling
black and red in the dark against
infinite space. cast them out

infinite
cast them out dashed
against the gates of time.
cast them out and over
there like red rover,
rolling over and over
into blank water.

cast them out
forever.
never stop,
oh never.