“it has been almost a year since I followed
the right stretch of sky to Alexanderplatz where
blue eyes and black folded like Psyche’s multitude
of butterflies
we hit the whisper running and the July girl was found once more
in the steady stream of people lighting the square

we two fools kindled
hope, that futile spark living in the crux of a maelstrom—
small wonder it was driven under the HEEL of a monster some
might pity for her losses

those were the best days of my life
turning and turning in fields bronzed by spring’s awakening
vagabond’s spiraling skirt containing my limbs
you trailing behind me, electric as we spun
candy heart dreams of men with iron skin
‘44 and ‘58 without guilt compounded on your shoulders

you and me wove through the Wires to be touched by
Monsieur Fox and the girl with cosmic devotion
filtered through her gaze
whoever thought distance could mean so little?

I am sorry I sold my soul three years ago
now we cannot return but as you can see I had no choice
but to bow to the god in the machine
blame it on His presence and pen for so much damnation is
contained in flower and fold

you were RIGHT
…but when was that ever in doubt?”

— l.f.

Weasels inna a cup!

Dances with rabbits.

There’s no place like Home, there’s no place like Home, there’s no place like home.