Burning Men Watching

Clay, clay, clay ringing out of the cracks the alkyd mist of the bowl of dust, the 500 mile disc of dust, clay sound sent off to the Granite Range, grains shifting off flat black rock and shouting edge after edge of that taut stream of seamless horizons.

Clay, clay, clay singing out forms of scorn, norms of ecstacy, and new pilots of renewal-- scouts at the edge of the mud, thudding the spots, echoing into the old earth like a meandering eye for the kinds of details, the whining, opining, witty crashes, the crooked dashes into the crust that make everyone smile.

Just a hint of song slipping like a million years through the thickness of the slip, a slice of ok life through the clay day, light going wet irridescent, erotic, spermic moments in sharkskin-- humCan coatings over whatever makes us sweat.

Yeah, it's an original, a something special in a tinker toy monument to prediction S, as in saw it coming, Psychics all, the new horizon of tufts 'n' bluffs,

a next adventure featuring cufflinks clasping Conan with Intel, drums with bums, history and crystals, whispering and the physical like mystical, the twirling of the trunks and the torches, the nude and the rude, the drunks and the monks, the mountains and the fountains, the skating connivors, the chattering survivors about what everyone lost, and lent to.

Again, again, the gang takes off, shuffling chaos and cares and calling it a next hand, calling it a burning man, burning men watching the burning man, firey hands pressed into clay towers hands sprouting from pillars waving at the comings and glowings of a new crowd.





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