https://sparepartslit.wixsite.com/sparepartslit/read-volume-12
Hard to replicate the groove of too-cool undulation in the stalk of the Palm-Tree's sway. Bark that leans a mean, too-tall of a hang, majestically. Two-handed type of thick tube of hardened anaconda skin – it’s got a bold bend in the durability of its sinuous shell that contains its frame. The vegetative style is all too-tough – head-on kind of brave, no fear takin’ on the brutal buck of a hurricane, a breed that simply: don’t-give-a-fuck. The green hair of leaves, high atop like a toupee; explosive green leaves like a pirate catches a point-blank cannon-ball; fiery explosion, the thing seen last. Lined up down the lace of grid-lapped streets, open squares of bare dirt, along sidewalks, out here, in the valley, on the coastal side of golden dreams – erected prominently, over flat-land streets; they stand statuesque, in a weirdly brave way, always with a droop-of-pride. Always alone, not lost, or lonely, like the admirable lope of a coyote in the glow of the horizon-line moonlight, almost holy. Although, palm trees can’t run, and neither can I – cinderblock style, bro-migo-built...stalwart...burly. Desperate lanes emanate the infinite run of long directions – it all ends in pain. Do respect and aim past the limits of your mind, and briefly dubious time, like the scrape of trunks, gunnin for the sky. Damn fine ambitions; especially for the beaten and burned-out stock, gettin’ up again and givin’ one more attempt, there’s grit in the try. Grow big, blow off barriers, the chainsaw comes for us all, any worth on the temporal earth has gotta die.
