Lizard Juice

I wish you would go all woodsy like dive into the green octave of spring soy get to know the Mama, eat the mineral before she eats you, stead of letting death dine for you and binging on that oil, you heard me, that oil, that lizard juice

This Place

This is an odd place where anything goes. The weather changes in a second. Image and thought are relative only to the moment. They are SOSs, telegrams, discards from Joseph Cornell constructions, journal entries, a witnessing of the random, feathers in the tail of the Bird of Chaos, whistlings in the dark, prayers spoken into a cobwebbed well, folded indecipherable smudges of notes found in the corner of an old wallet dropped along the highway, things you would say alone to a newborn child or would confess to an stranger on a crosstown bus. It is about fractions, not whole numbers. Peeks, glimpses. Aperçus—not portraits, not full views.

This place is about knowing the house is on fire and knowing exactly what you would take if you could take only one thing.