rustling reeds.
windmills swaying arms to the unWind:
swastika of regeneration.

a man grazing on man,
grazing on goat,
grazing on land's grease.

the well stares back into
your heliocentric orbs,
listening for the blue whistle of silence.

you snicker:
"my name
is
Excalibur."

it comes,
colored by the absence of color,
riding the void into designations.

hear it:
it is the sound of
sound.

clasp the tremor
below your heart and
above the stomach -
yea, that's where
the soul
is.

it came, and
all is same as all
was.

you look at your hands,
at the dessicated shrubs of hold:

the mouth thirsts.
the thirst thirsts.
the atoms of you,
the resplendent patterns of you,
the sacramental doubts of youth
thirst for

Coca-Cola 
and 
the Internet, the

future 
of product distribution.



8.3.98