the earth is flat. i have ventured forward in my grey cubicle car over these flat livestock lined grizzly-chin scapes in a humble state of self-recognition; past the sahara motel and into ponds of mildewing breath east of my home, onto the farm fields, underneath a red and white-striped circus tent abandoned for the resplendent echoes of jesus christ in another time, in another town, in the lonely witch grey fingers of the trees tangling the strings running from my very beating vascular organ to the round canvas air. tent revival town. under the sheets with the moon; the christmas lights make dusty swimming patterns on the ceiling while the holy spirit moves through us with a chainsaw. and we come to the realization we have not found that thing that's missing.comb my hair. tie my shoes. button my coat. wipe the spittle from my chin. 
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