it’s about rhymes. it’s about slightly s[h]ifted echoes of the times we used our hands (for steadier, they were, than feet) to stake our claims and take our stands. but we don’t stay still for long; some of us study the Fleet, and no few were fathered by foxes.

it’s about boxes. where we meet [. . .]


territory’s truly marked by only one thing: presence. those who linger are landed, those who merely loiter are but peasants. so though to the uninitiate these pieces seem bulwarks for a border, we know what they master is a magic of another order. listen: some are bombs, blasted from fat caps to break a barrier [. . .]


a sandgrain salts the lion’s rosary, renders him wraith on an endsummer night: Monday, 2:16am, when silent reflections recoil by reflex into sovereign’sight. minky starshine phrases the air into a sanguine vexation, ’til the requiemix sets the five-year eve free by the ambiometrics of the fixture tree, an elegiac elation.

— «what meandering madness is [. . .]