Pinch

What are these empty fields of sound that stretch off into the distance as if they were spitting into the eye of the horizon, speckled with tiny tumbling bushes that are prickly to the touch but soft puffs of incognizible motion to the distance? What is this screaming sky that is coming down out of the blue and whites and passing in black spots on the ground?

I have seen the globe so far past my eyes perception, far beyond my presence. I have seen so much farther than any details in the crunching soot at my feet or the air dripping with dryness clenching at my throat and I have taken too much time drifting away from myself through this tiny bright window that I now type through at to you. There are pictures here. and sounds.

and off farther away I see the distant tables, thats mesa to you sir, and they sound like strangling bending air that squelches between beats like jelly mushing out from the inside of a bad sandwich. and I hear notes and sounds that tumble down cogs and cogs of a machine.

It is a contraption in the desert, a turned vehicle that flipped somehow, perhaps in the wind, perhaps in the somnambulance of an over-imbibed driver, perhaps placed here by a divine hand that rained them down and only the rest were crushed into sand under the weight of time and this one retained its shape and creaking guitar parts and rusted liver-spotted, pimpled rust.

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