0n an old winter night of who thousand eleven the farmer's daughter's bodyguard's dog's nephew was thirsty for a fight. He rode to the end of the traincarboxride and lonely he was stunned by the perplexity of that which he sought. The bone stared him in the eye outside of a country saloon style. Their boots held the dirt like a monkey holds the cage they rattled. It was angry the moment and all was sensual for nothing hurt. Shortly after the fight would be their futurefate but neither creature was interested in that. They fought on morals and standards that spanned centuries and every inauguration and birthday and wedding party was celebrated and represented by falling star ships. When the morning asked for recognition the crowd stopped to wonder and souls skipped beats. The suspense was unimportant for nothing happened to the trapeze builder who played a fiddle with his toes and the grapefruit with his belly. And only women swam in the mushroom lake. Everyone knows that. Follow your heart and other phrases were chanted by the flowers and the wheat grass and the wind. Yesterday tasted better the duelers thought. They were no longer hungry but they had learned something in the pacing before igniting their trigger stems. Hallellujuh praise all lords and all that claim to be. We like to think we have names as we are only creatures of the earthy ground we walk on as we go back in goodnightdaytimelifeend.
Photo by Lear Bunda. Words by Dustin Whitehead.
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