when the wind comes it’ll come wearing gene autry’s spurs & speak w/a distinctive twang a very deliberate lisp of associations the strategems of need it’ll enter into a dialogue w/what the ache inures what it beckons into was into beckons into ash when it comes it’ll come as a chimney sweep out of a red texas sky riding a system of plastic plates it’ll have no use of any outside nor even itself its very nature its rationale as it ricochets down the midway like a bullet chattering a bullet like a bullet’s various outcomes it’ll dervish until the front door of a house w/out the one w/out wheels & w/a kick set the system of plates into motion the plates which remind the pistol of what the lariat’s lost