Monday, October 12, 2009



-- our glasses met with that noise, following.
Two glaciers colliding would sound the same
if they weren't made of millennia-old ice and
six miles fucking wide full of frozen tons of
scraped tundra, rocks and -- fossil-garbage

-- mastodon scrotums, and half-digested shit
of things that died while eating whatever it was
they caught that flew too slowly and low, before
we filmed a single beast catching things.
All of this raced through my synapses --

-- as our glasses met with that distinct and final
sound. And raised to the level of yours, through
the cubes, I saw your eyebrows. All distorted.
As wonderful as anything I have ever seen or
imagined to have existed on this orbiting ball.

c. Ciprianowords Inc. 2009

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