Dan Sicoli
misspelling all the names of sound
merely a half moon night when all the bones vibrate into a pitch unfelt yet fulfilling. looking up, i crave cheese as the rat bastards spread decay like so much pig slop across the terrain. voiceless volcanoes, the ones with the hidden eyes, sleep unfettered at the end of a starless road an ocean away. there is no doubt slow waters will silently rise. tides, like all living creatures, hunger for what is unquenchable.
when i was a thirsty boy i once found sound seeping from a seashell. undrinkable, the waves stirred curiosity; the hum of the shell was pure and distinct–mountable evidence of catastrophic events that had occurred long before footprints. imagine the creature once housed in such a vehicle. imagine the unnamed storms. i swallow a mouthful of noise.
when i was that boy i took a stick and burrowed a message in the wet sand. this is what festers as the surge recedes. the shoreline became a mirror for a disintegrating moon. after harvest, we become slaves to contrived physics.
man never walked in no vacant void. truth is a censured electron. glory glory atrophy.