Outside on a break -- where Lewis and Clark and their companions careened, salmon musk, incense of bark, rain illuminating the Columbia Slough. Right down there they traveled, "we call this rockey island the Sepulchar," Clark-twinned doppelganger akimbo. Stanley Park -- in memory, I heard the golf carts funereal fractal to mussel stickers, pulsing to droning thunderbird pinions, one instant
by Aldebaran. I apprehended then you can see the mountains from the cedars of British Columbia, Tsath of the West End, hovering ridges of polished snow, footprints of Sherrard Point and Mt. Wyeast. "Correlating the
mental contents," a paraphrase from memory --
Brain track of a .22 slice bullet, cadaver scalp, pinned in the Police Museum. And father, his property gone to the Voyniches and Yetis, a saddle tormenting over the horizon,
forest harvested from the clay.
8:27 PM 1/22/2011