Wrapped in Thunder a Novel of Amnesia
Saturday, March 28, 2009 at 10:43PM 
Chapter One
Railway Vision.
Fox in the chicken coup, we run across the field. The boy smells like sun and late wind. I sleep soundly when you hold me and when I sing to the stars they get brighter. Fox in the chicken coup.
Chapter Two
Which you must swim to - We take the apples from the old man's tree and don't feel bad because he never eats them anyway. We fall down and tumble through the neighbors orchard. That's the same day Lynnea fell into the nettles from the rope swing.
Later out at Dungeness we eat raw oysters from the shore, turning over grey rocks the color of November. A high fever showed me the spotted dancers.
Chapter Red, to be sung in Winter
Small Serpent, winged. Here are your antlers wrapped in Thunder.
Mother Trucker, the Chapter of Question
The young girl hikes up her skirt, shows her skinned knees to her uncle. They say I'm cold for saying this. I'm still thinking about that girl. I say it's dirt. There's incest and penetration in the air.
The galvanize roof, his Formica table, her Johnnie Walker. It's been decades and still she thinks her daughter is 9.
Blessed Chapter
Not just in a Blue Moon and we made love secretly in Côte d'Ivoire
It does not matter what you use it for, just a little time left. Wrap me around lily's.
I am the field
cane harvest
a scrapped sky
See how I fade with the hours
years
glances
words
this is my palm
of a way
Some say
[Takes Back aka Jacksta]
Chapter Six, which you read in fever
Lilacs bloom outside the window. Here the alligator and water moccasin is your brother. You bathe in verbena, hybiscus and horsetail and and color the water blue in the outside tub beneath the old cypress. You keep the letters. You feel you've put enough miles down.
Long Chapter
They stay up past 15:00 behind the painted door and called each other ‘Liar’
Chapter Ecstasy
They hated each other for it
Need
Lost sleep and don’t be so tender
Chapter God
On her knees she forges for the root
Mary is a flamenco dancer Our Holy Mother
You give permission
One small bowl of oranges, baguettes for the boys on the corner
Small leather bag
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Reader Comments (2)
It's for posts like this I don't want you to stop blogging! simply beautiful, your writing reminds me a lot of Marta Hoskins, an American friend of mine who's been living in Paris for many years now.
http://pariswebs.com/2008/2008.html
i really love and enjoy what and how you write it.
thankx to be, dear Jacksta