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[birchbritches]

Competitors

Agrarian archrival archives sightline to cathedrals and arches and has a haughty heart that's also not wrong, that there's a hoarding there unequal to its services. Both commence commerce as early as they can, see what stand-ins they can ply as worth. The wares stare down the minimum possible.

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Little Else

Harried agrarian helplessness gets its aggregates as stable as they can be, and eventually, without enough rats, combustion gets out of hand. Silo wiles the sirens piecemeal, meager emergency-personnel seeing distant hubbub and knowing to ring bells, and how little else they have.

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Eschewal of Accruals

Eschewal of accruals crural thus far summons the other tide, an eon of washing away where we'd never have dreamt it, replete depleter needing to uncrust. The sea-sound is so loud and I am unlistening to anything else. Particulate spends a lot of time being smaller.

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Erring Root

Weren't you a stewing coot, erring root thought to come up unbidden in the middle of a row of businesses, an aside squelched into hellish dialogue agog with diatribe retries to describe better what was ago when a secondhand-telling is helpless and reckless,

then up grows haranguing bud and swears it'll be bloom, and thorns shore up a fine endless itch of surface-neurons, and now the whole day is this, a logistical hardscrabble dabbling with doom when one little thing goes unexpected.

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Yolky

Yolky choked-up polka crawls wily up the hilly streets, eats thatching for breakfast, waits to see what the creatures will do. Some of it's okay.

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Fiddle's Interims as Violin

creaks like preening fiddle-bows harried to rattle debris loose, giving in to violins and having the milky ghost rosin off as far as it'll stretch over a sea it's uneager for but lost something to and has to keep wailing after to such an extent tourists tell tales and arrector pili make the bluffs full of restless crickets before the currents hinge and whinge and the haughty overlook's minor domicile ekes crepitant ongoing at every joint as the song rides by on seabreeze, no interim or alteration but a shift of wind changing everything we breathe

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Answering

Doleful boat-ride, you'll yodel like a hound knowing there'll never be land again, ears will droop and you'll hear a siren in every distinguishable feature, in a feather going through its moment as a boat, in a barnacle holding fast to hope with its barnaculous legs, sirens at every opportunity, and you'll have to decide ad infinitum whether to be sea too. The answer gets less precise over time.

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Drying Time

Pillar of spine's timely salts time out, wash at every meal, see how many phalanges enamor into saline, have hung around clung to being so long it failed to consider what it would be to be a sea.

The wind shifts, the waves take another layer away, we taste laver while we still last and ask what it was, task how-long-yet with identifying itself. We wet our hands and wait an unclear drying time.

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Mange Across the Way

Manged belly belying what's been et, what we're getting at having been gotten to and atomized into mites and turned a canid from a critter to a countdown blithering and blighted into what might not be inevitable but we all know.

Body thereafter, a mammal disgraced to a pink and bitten sack, may as well have been the act of a petty god to take a decent creature and make him one of us.

We pick and primp and question if the mange has got us too, if our slew of nibbling will go so awry and raw, but we let the mutt melt in the periphery rather than getting near. The right call, but still awful.

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Readings

agreeing with the reams, we team up, seethe, steep, take in text and see what we become, the uneager eking eagerness and trying to make it last

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Asleep Scene

Asleep, the scene doesn't seep in, or so it says, and we go on sleeping, we eep and glean and clean our teeth and eke what we can back off of them, figuratively, run a lot of swabs back through the mill and make a meal of it, metaphorically, can pack a can-opener for whatever falls into our laps, can have a foolish toolset at the ready and be dead-asleep and still wondering and not stuck though we don't move, have many moving parts working through what's been in our vicinity up to now, not to exclude the current. The lips do little jumps, the teeth have a lot of untold expressions to give off.

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Looked Up

What'll it burn into your eyes after all this time? Had an astronomically precise schedule and been on the calendar for years on end and planned attendance and sign-up sheets and an endless supply of accoutrement and merchandise and we knew better but still looked up, after all these years.

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Soup'll Do Tricks

Soup'll do tricks in the tupperware, isn't supper but a superhero of a potion after a time, over the course of spoilage or the toils toward it turns from mere sustenance into a hope that likely will get out of hand and go wrong. Still, I stand by it.

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Day's Languishes

We realize the same day that the day is today, take wayward notes out of pockets, peruse and find them useless and let them go and wind or injury or time sends them away, or it's some sign we're moving, it's this thing going on with its inertia and the let-goes left behind seeming like a storm. Day storms off, we startle like it's a storm, we get left behind eventually but at times try to hold on, at times find aching fingers or wind or sand so resolute as to be second-string sandpaper doing its best at an impression of grit that comes with intent, or is manufactured and sold in reams. Eventually the day gangs up on us, gets other days in on the bit, has a long way to go and a lot of ways to cut ties and we're not the only ones trying to forget or regretting almost everything. Day takes up a newspaper, confirms the passage of time, and vanishes, languishes in what gets away from it outside of what's intentionally let go.

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Identifying Documents

A series of succinct chapters, we weren't inching through, knew no one had long, knew the mattering material undense, split a pitiable life into simple facts to sink none of your time, hope the summary helps, or does justice, hope it'll suffice as identifying documentation. We might use an adjective but only as a last resort. The sun comes up too loud and cracks the sky.

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Orionion Ellipsis

Orionion ellipsis succumbs to gravity somewhere in the middle then cinches to improve precision, isn't used to company, isn't ready to belt anything out or be an extant amalgam of stars pulled out of the darkness and decided as a set, was only the yodel of floating matter stumped on how to matter or myth or form any sort of background, then out from nowhere someone clung to it and spit stories ardently enough to pass them on, and nonchalance took over over time, a tale so stale as to go unnoticed even when the uneager ellipsis sits there blinking with its unthinkably old worries.

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Shopping at the Augery

hawking augers by the side of the ice, knowing a melt's a-coming, knowing an auger's not a lot, knowing there's no making any hole that'd do us any good or change the hell we're dwelling on, but it's hard not to try, hard not to break the crying-shame we spend so long on to do anything else and a little gadgetry does wonders to take the attention, a little breakdown of nearby scenery might relieve what isn't going to change no matter what, but might be distracted from