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Anchoring St. Hermit Krab w/Con Man I.D.entity (5.11+/x)
Approach: Within the confines of motion,
Corn Tassel is a destination. The x-rayed remnants lay between the passenger
seats. The retrazo cockscomb is further down the aisle. Nobody
claims it, not even the high priest St. Bernard verging on extinction.
Retrace your way back to the saddle between Pico de Orizaba and the catafalque
of Quetzalcoatl (consumed by the green fire of its own crater).
18,439 feet above sea level, the gavel drops (in this
country you’re guilty until proven innocent) adrenalin on the galloping
tongue: 7.3 on the Richter (taking into account the recent devaluation):
Scale Factor:
| C# |
D |
Eb |
F
|
Gb
|
A
|
B#
|
| iron (Fe) |
silver (Ag) |
tin (Sn) |
platinum (Pt)
|
lead (Pb)
|
gold (Au)
|
copper (Cu)
|
| violet |
indigo |
azure |
verde
|
amarillo
|
orange
|
red
|
From within the inside of Monkey House ‘I’
cannot distinguish reflection from cracks in the sky. How would I know
if it wasn’t my mind that composed the glacial shells dripping from
her vestigial teeth? “Make a fist and plunge it home,” states
a recipe passed down through the paternal generation gap. Rack:
| 1 fishbone comb |
2 teaspoons glue (reduced
from rabbit) |
1 pair of fingerless
gloves |
| 1 orange (5990 A°) tube
sock |
3 cups consommé
de gallo |
40 tie-offs |
| 3 x ½” baby
angles |
22 peso bounty (inc.
15% I.V.A.) |
2 x #3 camming unit
|
| 12 corncob pipes |
43” ice axe (mother
of pearl handle) |
1 bushel cornhusk wallpaper
|
| |
2 x 8.8 mm tessellated
ropes (static) |
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By the 3rd pitch, the conch glides further down the glacier of darkness as the
larynx downshifts an octave, crater dome bulging. Everyone involved is seeping,
fusing, circumnavigating desire. The manual doesn’t say anything about
climbing in blue genes. Between the reclined seats I catch a glimpse of a boiled
rooster vagina. The bailing wire slices right through the beak and cockscomb,
leaving me stranded, alone with her, unable to navigate back with “her
legs around me.”‡
Without a mouth to eat with (the mouth is just a hole within the summit of
this catacomb of Monkey House) I couldn’t bear to keep my eyes open, focusing
on the red dot to induce regurgitation of freeze-dried mongol shrimps in oyster
sauce, missing the mark.
Pitch by pitch analysis: (1) Lick her ear of corn
(on the cob) in a public marketplace. (2) Traverse left, clip the piton, extend
to transept shoulder. (3) Wet your beak on the grindstone. (4) Calculate the
volume of a cone. (5) Wedge the stone in your armpit. (6) Punish yourself liberally.
(7) Hail a taxi. (8) Reach the crux: the reflection of stars in a puddle of
anti-freeze bile: the crossroads of the summit: the pure eruption of lava w/no
smoke.
Descent: Rappel off the neon cross (a.k.a. the town’s
lightning rod). Fall asleep right there in the woods 33π meters off the trail.
‡ “Siamese Twins,” track 4: Pornography
(1982): The Cure.
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Anchoring St. Hermit Krab w/Con Man I.D.entity (5.11+/x)