Hawk is my ownmost khaki. This is the grunge of spirit. Crest the sotto. Each outer stroke stokes echoes of mine own corps museum. Corpse Diem. Meaning more than we say, saying less than we mean. Odd so turn and under. The road is old so go there, till it, make mad sarcophagi or practice bibliophagy. The day is seized by phagocytes. Curt and poised as sticks against a syllabus of curbs. But names will never hurt as much as they call "it" into being. Sad, small swallows these white blood cells. If there is more meaning in what is left unsaid we should never leave off unsaying it. The rupture is always available and we wait in the wings with vinyl spatulas and dribble on our chins. Each stroke of time is a shedding and even the clock lets go of challenges that can be met but not won. Never more. The ring is troubled by squaring off against its own circle. Plangent code, planetary message. No one on the phone is listening.