Urban stargazing and clean linens

but now we fantail thistles, lifting and dusting every conceivable corner of rudimentary columnar stationmasters, eagle streamers on slab turning voice over wind-regions toward a swath of moon so wide and yellow that i wince, stop all breathing, start up the chainsaw hologram, walking past slowly as it gazes back into my eyes, vents blowing cold air down around my chair, this sun-tiered sad habit growls at the foot of my chair, waiting for me to step toward the door, i must make a deposit and seven calls to keep a roof above my head, i am frightened today and trembling, what does it take to make music fall downhill, help me dance, craving for spirit so immediate and carnivorous that knowledge blasts open a bandier of shame and pushes forward into the amethyst street, murky and waning, step by step so as not to pause.