Ghost Money Is Real

i foresee a guardpost condition at the coast if we can climb this massachusetts memory bank.

there is and there is not going to be a chance to salvage burnt offerings, the waterlog, the rucksack, the watchdog, the entry point, the ash tank, your face to me, campsite.

spin & what, an arrow phase?
it is the birds that run this yard, that beach, who don't give a fuck, sit on the fence. ocean surge one tomorrow on tv, the birds fucking don't. they leave of course.

or if ice box melts too, grind up the food to the street.
there is nothing in here, there isn't. no-one around. natural setting, mound of soil, the entire earth, my outside arms. frogpond turtle and leaf. no-one around. 

if i pay you in love will you show me tiny outerbank towns between storms, read me song or wreck or patched voice articles off expired papers? thin in the forest. in case the sunlight wants to tamp the surface. in order to forecast a rumble in the sky or in our case, in order to avoid skin.
if i want to love you i have to through this, or if i want to fall off of a cliff, i can just walk backwards.

strain the muscles of the hand to pass a shovel to bury the fire as if to leave the campsite, as if to somehow miss the storm blast. in order to remain stable in the surf. as if mainland. in order to love you. 

what is that noise? if you are talking to yourself i can take it, it can be blended with the rest of sound. tv is planting seeds under my skin and i see a green layer has appeared. you can touch, you can't talk, the sound goes through me.