Allen Bramhall


jerking goshawks from the sky

fortunate breathing mechanism assists us where air thins into endless space. thin air documents a time of loss. we collect ourselves in the machined elegance of contained effect. this bottle of nothing but our potential breath serves to remind us of where the end might lie. assuming ends lie, which seemingly we all believe. but what if the thinness of oxygen import drives Tom Cruise to earth too soon: how disappointed will his alien mentors be? and how about life-of-dream Paris Hilton studded with glamourlessness for having safety in cash savings as an integrity module? doesn't she realize that oil fields burp funding for anything you wish to do, you being emblematic of everything that ought to associate Paris Hilton with life, you ninny. life isn't careless, it follows logical ups and downs until the mountain loses its perplexing savour and we follow the final geologic root. those lovely alien space craft, as fleeting as desperate glory, create the right landmines. they allow the future of hating to accept. anyone left after the perfect landmine should expect loss of a limb or two, as apt compensation for rivers full of hydro-carbons. the numbers can be tweaked later, the point is how surveyors keep rereading the vitality of Everest's altitude. is the summit really up there or is it way up there? how can one tell? here's our studious link, in which we drive toward a semaphore. Paris Hilton is lovely if a frail version, and Tom Cruise is vital, which means handsome. associate both their names with names in general, and with plausible exploits, and with the integrity of rolling down slopes. the aliens that have parked above the highest peak, inside a jetstream-instigated cloud of snow, with strings attached to our most plangent caprices, are mighty busy just hovering. we can't all hover, tho, some of us must fall. the preparations for Nepalese fall, and Tibetan fall, and Hezbollah fall, and Al-Qaeda fall, and Name-Supplied-Later (you know it is coming) fall. strip the data with massive bomblike principles. do you wish to be a part of that? can you plushly divide zero? hunting thru the atmosphere for some semblance, remaining kind or simple or stellar, the weather really jolts. a climber stops somewhere too far, becoming perfectly an example. freezing inside and out, the crush of facts form a hope for sleep, easeful sleep. pick up pieces of the life turned, leave the crusted body as an effect for future generations, love on. dying such a death, redeemed by idealogues of hopeful behaviour, stretching out in the pliant snow and rocks, oh Reader, you are not paying attention. why is that?

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