Crag Hill


Six Prose Poems from Four’sCore

Knowledge enabled us through the swamps of sweeping the house. However, this has not prevented bizarre furniture and hitched individual cognition. In this condition, the wind of misfortune blew. “The Eternal Quest used to breed regularly.” A good compromise kept up a constant din, the cold sting of blood driving a few pairs behind the meat counter.


Hear distant shouts, the indefensible cries of a shipwreck. The arguments twisted her arm. She fought him off. I think that one shouted in silence again, lifted her off the air for an instant with her pathology or developmental space. The bad news brought mountains. One part of him grew directly contrary to observations. He imagined himself (it was all he could afford).


“Love is just the language of thinking?” “But it doesn’t feed you.” The problem raised the problem of the spirit. The mailman dismounted Hegelianism and, from his pocket, snatched up all the Germans in harmony. They had a ball. I knew it to be water–earthier, not so afraid–and stood upon the shore, parrots beautiful as a dream. Keys chittered in their cages. The lake was a long oval, the fragments of newsprint, urine. I listened for sound cut off, curtains.


Stimulating to this day, their crucifixes stood consistent in his desert. A wind shook their burlap habits. They were barely able to stand. The mission is analogous to the top of the harsh whitewashed thing-in-itself. In the glazed clay ground, idealism remains. When they heard the shout, reality was sitting on the planks, dulled by dust and sweat. Passing thought, blazed trees, the freedom of drift through the point at which we always believed. The old one blustered about the demons of meditation, his own shameful mist.


Bucket of whitewash, classification systems, mule work according to the culture, as if everyday there is a given synthetic explanation. Terms are not translatable, planks for days on end. We were to take the goat through a difficult birth. The first spear touches one and makes him the arriving birds, the clear piping of pleasure.


Primitive relations may help to settle the urge to have my picture first emerged. He tangles a clump of hair, otherwise known ideas, then she began to pull her generalization with laughter, throwing the valid a comprehensible jubilation. The process of cognition–the owl outside the tent–I don’t think you will find me. Portentous clouds in front, I ran ashore, way up through an orchard where the shopkeeper was not a soul, performing a unique service, though the door was unfastened. Floods came down. Picket lines.

Crag Hill writes and reads out of Moscow, Idaho, not as an unlikely place for such literacy activities as it might at first seem. We all had to learn, after all, how to put that X on our hunting license.

 
 
 
 
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