Orwell's Miniatures

Song of the Towers

Dayshine, deyshine, spines in the air/road/area code/ minaret/no/know-- Ignore the way he leans on the exit less like two wheels no more mores too wielded anyway, like nights in a field of blue limbs reaching, getting rich on the wind, day moores like Othollo might, if you give him his yellow bright bird, live, between sentences and senses of program, on the handle of a dull evening, a day shining back its neon score board, I'm yours, and yours, lean on me, pull me up before the buzzer

Dream Sequence (O p u l e n c e)

Good Negro Sunshine (You Mean Appropriation)

Strike a Pose

People in Liberty City

The True Swifts are Flying

My sense of convergent evolution was that it had to do with love, which meant it had to do with hate, which meant trouble does not lead to discouragement but there is a chance something candid will skim you like a misfit boomerang and you will wake up with its language for land and limb. Thinking about the dreams as they are happening. Tense elegance. The true swifts or torpor or landing or damn/dim wound I planned you a conduit not this coal truck shipped fuel don't fall don't fuel don't fall from it