"Seasalt brain full of rubberduck...The garlic gerbils, wood chair-housecat sits down, ass tie die, Yeshi! Candles singing spaghetti."

The gold leaf bridge houses two ghosts with green makeup and gold teeth,  standing in their white underwear, near lake Pontchartrain ~

The two ghosts handle net bags full of camel cigarettes and talk to the original I6a on handheld radios, leaning close to the stove to warm their legs --

Matrix Witch, another peephole version of the glitch-witch-bitch, draws near with a spray bottle full of purple flowers --

Link, the one who can go invisible, tells her that her hair looks like a sponge, as if radio wires came out of the pores when squeezed, instead of water --

She just stares at the water with her squeeze bottle aimed in the clouds -- The original I6a tells them to offer the glitch witch one of their fishing poles, so she can contour her body in the direction she is most interested,  but the ghosts look inside the kitchen cabinet, instead of the floating basket -- and she starts in on the squeezing of that bottle -- misting in circles the air around her --  and then glitching her head and hands and torso, taking on computer graphics appearance -- glitch an old channel, six news broadcast of her delivery of  the weather, when she worked  as a nursemaid in that movie, Sixteen Stones --

She flips her face right on the left, and upside
Down on the right, sprays at the ghosts, they turn on dance music -- turn on a fog machine, disco lights -- they watch their gold teeth blur in tracers over the horizon line --

She just  keeps spinning and stopping a leg where an arm, hand where a heart, mouth where a toe, like a slot machine of barbies with a leg and a hat and a waist, plastic ass -- nose hand, hair, spinning, until the ghosts put in quarters and lose all of their money, then blamo! They win $600.00 and cash out --

Been tendrils, snake wired effects, snore from lungs, the leafless tree at seventy miles an hour, and falling / The skin is the leather, the hands are the stories to little rock -- An orange mist in the eye -- A giant and a puppy --
It took the length of mazes to thin purple crushed velvet almost a century even trade avocado to the tongue and feed the mind its alphabet, conway sign is pointed out pebbles and the semi's are like wandering cows and make the mudflaps into curled lips
Who had wandered the forest, a long length of octopus aliens, dripping snakes up into the clouds, attempt to pull the fog down, that heavy moisture as wires, and cables echo and sprout others out of a snored old man  on his back, his head rests on the grey hat, was it he who wandered leafless trees at seventy sundowns, miles apart, these musical waterfalls of flute, and mirror, an hour upon his lonely feet, and falling, the skin is the leather, those handfuls that are stories -- the little rock clutched in his tired palm, an orange mist in his eye -- he is dreaming, a giant black and white puppy. In his dream he whispered about the length of mazes, he said to the thin purple, crushed velvet, hung from a window that almost a century had passed, even before trade of avocado to the tongue, fed the mind, that its alphabet pebbles fed the mind so long -- Since-- he points to a sign for Conway -- watched the mudflaps like wandered cows curled lips --

In another room, the Arkansas hills pass at 50 mph to East - West - South -
Blur and the fish jump fling off water -- graveyards confederate flag train tracks, the old haunted house on the hill
The warm string insanity of string a' netting -- A radio static


He points to another room with a solid stone ring on his finger to the hills of Arkansas, he's passing in a boat at 50 mph to east, west, south -- Blur and fish jump in the boat, fling off water, passes graveyards, confederate flags, train tracks, old haunted houses rise on the hill --
He leans back into the leaves, the warm string of insanity, a white serpent of string, a netting, then, just a radio in a field, buried in leaves, the tuner left in between channels --

It's awkward, under a clock with a sword anyway -- as fieldmouse, Mishka, running the steps, to sneak food to a friendly mouse -- each honey tone in the south, what shoot/cut/scene must wander with winged three headed camera

Exit sign, glowing above escape, here through this hatch, and come in the back of the mind, and change around the rooms, inviting the friendly mouse into here; with some garden flavors and spruce up this little laboratory to a small paradise for Mishka, the mouse.

In here you can plant Azaleas, and cucumbers, and pumpkins, and squash and live here in this garden with her and her brothers and sisters, the mouse and you, and me and our giraffe, if you know how to shape the basement ceilings, with pipes running steam, into glass set in clay, up in spiral to octagon window. Sail envie.

The shades are drawn now; pink fuchsia, dawn orange, neon red curtains, cats at the sofa -- shirts and shoes have all been lined up, in front here, near the mantle in a circle, there is the mouse inside each shoe, snored quiet -- and the cats yawn

The television replays little rascals, and the three stooges in short bursts, changing channels every two minutes -- the grey couch seat is seen from the crow in our corner of the chess board, its vision protects mouse shit in the shoes, the man sitting at dinner and tv -- S/he flips on Little rascals, then three stooges.

Goodnight. Sweet dreams.