At the space where the hybrid antennae extends and meets to discuss what is subverted in conversation, what is commonly called the third hand of jesus, here Moses meets in quieter hushed tones forced free by acid and grass. Forced open like a gourd dried and dropped to the floor. Forced open like opinions left to weave themselves into the annals of fact and I believe so. He is screaming into his breakfast, pacing the divide confused and rebellious toward stories that start with “I believe so, or studies show”. He is violet and pink screaming into the distribution bucket that rains media and verse on him. He is avoiding rains of misdirection and insecurity popping in the glare of closeness and suspicion of character. It is here that discussion regresses to an advancement, which is to say that, we are here, in the future, already dead. Here, we are without the languages of art and understanding. It is here in this barren future that he will address the oneness and sameness of all thought. He will join them. Here he will settle mind into measures, measured against time, measured and kept inside grooves and their distant cousins dance and cunnilingus. Dance and virulent strains of ultraviolet light and hips that attack at the center. He is a stone unmovable in its descent from life form to fuel. When it is quiet, he will pull his guitar from outfitted protection. He will apply pressure and fine combed teeth to otherwise challenged key. He can say yes again with every notation, every stop, and tap out frenzied stroke he gives her. She will speak in whole and long sounding vowels responding to the constant hammering applied by rough and split fingers. It is with this meditation that he is reminded of Season and her eyes green as grass, skin soft like sand against unbreakable ocean.His smile is fixed against the invincible tide. The beach is cold and full of boulders and winds like razors closed and smacking your face bluntly, smashing into him terrified and paper thin, smashing into the shield of Cree medicine driven to bone to protect him. He has stopped speaking in slurs and can communicate a decent debate about God and country, God and the restlessness of his friend Ego, the thick and relentless. A penis knows no morality only stimulus. It is a great wonder to him with his back to the room with his back invested in the long row home, that he is still somehow committed to a faceless machine with its pulleys and hard granite impossibility. With this he slips sock from cold beach and near freezing water. He is slowed by the slowness of faster moving parts and molecules. He is slowed by lack of r.e.m. sleep and the enormity of blood flow to extremities sleeping, only waking to spit fire and resentment. Waking only to feel the hot pulse of blood released and rushed to corridors inside houses of amazing and super dark. He may have kissed too needingly and possessively there in the park that they frequented. He may have brought a burning spear to a family outing full of confection and new street color. Deep street color made bright and wet with imagined trespass and betrayal. While she waits for kiss to cease he is reminded to tell her. He is reminded to tell her that he has seen the face of the new American male, the man that is now curled so tightly clinging to her skirt. Season is the gateway to America with burning torch and overextended sandals. She is imposed against your idea of space as it pertains to what exist inside the depths of “please don’t go”, and the guaranteed successes found there. He is crawling on knees and promising a better answer, promising a return to the truth as it was exposed and added to his growing fetishes and persuasions. Moses felt lucky to know his mind and to lay in complete subordination to it and its tragic whims. He was in love with her and sought to place her ahead of himself and the soft strumming of his guitar’s political screams. He tried to remember that it was never hard for him to plan ahead, that he wasn’t confusing manifestation with stealing. He thought he saw her sharing a meal with him. He thought he saw himself realized and lint free. He saw himself on top of her applying needle to balloon. This is a cruel way to extinguish shape and containment. A cruel way for any idea to perish, is under the strain of man’s favorite projectile. An even crueler way is to fuck an idea into someone, like the idea of family that pregnancy brings, or the idea that self service brings in the escape and denial techniques used by those that accept zero programming. Further he thinks that she will love him for his honesty, he thinks she will forgive his brutality and rough edges. Now, she is on top of him the sleeve fits tighter and he stretches it and finds a closed door at the end slick corridor. He will sit at that door slamming his body into it. Yes, he will pour himself to the end of her inches and settle snugly against the safety the end of the hall affords.