Way back, when everything was in a kind of haze, there was a box. The box, set somewhere in the center of the haze, was certainly no bigger than a dog. Such little yawns that were so fresh (there is a whistle somewhere in the center of a yawn, just noise enough, these whistles) rose up from the box. The haze, however, cracked, and light shone through the cracks. The box began to wiggle. Sides fell down.

Racer by Jane Unrue

Drums that beat like thighs. The point is in the details. Or the point is just to the left of the point. Or the point is to triangulate between the point and the point just to the left of the point and the point just below and to the right of the point and just to the left of the point. This is just another way of saying 'scalene' or 'isoscoles' or 'equilateral' or our fenders turned to rust or that distance equals rate times time. Even a child knows that, expressed in the details, "are we almost there?" The point being? The point being, that this goes on for awhile. How long? Well that would depend on the arc of time. Or the arc of distance and whether or not we travel in straight lines of in triangles. Circles. Parallelograms. Highlights from earlier: "It's hard to tell the difference between simulated crisis conditions and real ones." The point being? The point being the shafts of light emanating out at a point in the ground we have come to associate with soundbytes. The point being to take it on faith that resurrection is equivalent to redemption. Giving to receiving. The point being to shoot straight lines up. not points to the left of the original set of points. Not a separate axis. Not taking it on faith. Not that. Not a point below and to the right of the point that is just to the left of the original point. not there. those buildings still remain. Industry happens on those points. Tellurium's bell. See the light and the soul right now. All aboard, let's go to sea and find our secret hideaway. That destination of nature. That point. There. Just beyond the curve of the sea. Not the arc of how long it will take. Not that. Not the arc of a circle we travel on. A series of points arranged along a radial axis. Like the wheels of the car. The inside of the drum, of thighs. Fly fly.

Onkyo Formula Drivers
by Craig Foltz

Flower and Cronopio
A cronopio runs across a solitary flower in the middle of the fields. At first he's about to pull it up, but then he thinks, this is useless
cruelty, and he gets down on his knees beside it and plays lightheartedly with the flower, to see he caresses the petals, he puffs
at it until dances, he buzzes at it like a bee, he inhales its perfume, and finally he lies down under flower and falls asleep, enveloped in a profound peace. The flower thinks: "He's like a flower."

Julio Cortazar
from Cronopios and Famas

Likely it begins not along the outer cut, but crossing what is inward at the catch of each pleat. This might allow (from the inside out) some final definition apart from any fold. Still, each pleat (doubled outward from itself) may expand by constricting any crease it contains. The skirt, then, upon fitting, will export inner motion, but alludes to consuming any motion set forth. This might explain the girl’s awkward steps, and the gathering of wind in the skirt’s outer folds. If I am the girl (knowing wind as I do) I am found in the skirt facedown in the rain. Each catch, ribbed inward (and given to chafe), may abrade me up low, and could even show blood, as any crease in the skirt (now swollen with rain) will push adding pressure against each catch. Facedown in the rain I will turn facing upward. See how the sky seems to breathe itself in? It begins with the rain beginning as an odor. A thickening of wind, lifting up of a sudden, may displace such an odor in the folds of a girl. If this holds true, and if only by a notion, I will go up inside certain parts of myself. I will go with my hand up under my folds, on through to where it stops down behind me inside. What is held down behind me inside is the odor. It comes out away when I return with my hand. What comes out away with the odor is a color. It is not the same color as the color of the skirt. The skirt is yellow, or something thereabouts, or a yellowing away of some color from before. (But do I also mention the color that comes when I wring from the skirt what I know is not rain?) Any fitting, after all, demands explanation. But how do I explain what I can hardly describe? Is it only to say that a girl might be found in a skirt she is wearing facedown in the rain? Or is it nearly to say that when all else fails (for who, after all, would find such a girl?) that one should make do with all that is lost? The skirt is not yellow, but yellow must do. When fitted properly, depending on the cut, it will lift in folds down away from the skin. The original stitch begins in the girl. When touching the skin it should hurt.

Ebie Reconsiders the Original Stitch
David McLendon

"Despite strident efforts to paint the smallness of birds monuments persist."

Wilson Thicket,
Dagwood Forest

"Ombrosa no longer exists. Looking at the empty sky, I ask myself if it did ever really exist. That mesh of leaves and twigs of fork and froth, minute and endless, with the sky glimpsed only in sudden specks and splinters, perhaps it was only there so that my brother could pass through it with his tomtits thread, was embroidered on nothing, like this thread of ink Which I have let run on for page after page, swarming with cancellations, corrections , doodles, blots and gaps, bursting at times into clear big berries, coagulating at others into piles of tiny starry seeds, then twisting away, forking off , surrounding buds of phrases with frameworks of leaves and clouds, then interweaving again, and so running on and on and on until it splutters and bursts into a last senseless cluster of words."

Italo Calvino
from The Baron in the Trees