Rhinoceros Spine-Drive

It's not the worm drive, hungry for digits, that'll get you, it's the forgetful prescense, augering through the air. Squirming, two packs of cigarettes and two pots of coffee. Heaving through morning, breathing under punkrock, coffee for gurgling. It's the punkrock, augering with fingers, that'll raise you in the morning. It's the metal to lay us down. It's the pine sap and pitch smell to mark out each day.

Forget the day, remember the ancient turtle crossing the curvy road. The slender pines and the sand. The rhinoceros, horn lowered, trudging across whatever landscape you dreamt for him night before last. Remember purple and red and mostly green. Remember deep red like a bruise, just under the skin and whatever geographies stretch out beyond it. You are vast and innumerable and you are blood. You are bones with sinew stretched over them. You are your own frame and you hold yourself up. Hold out your arm, your shadow spans great distances.