Christian Hawkey Hour of Lucid Vegetation Audiovisual sky, crimped by a skein of geese, our skeletons locked upwards & into place. Look up, & the mouth drops open. Look up & the sky drops in —a blue guest— one white cloud snagged on the tip of our brain stems. Drainage occurs, in real time. & the one who told me our posture determines our experience of time was standing over me. I was lying down. A water-bead shot down the weathered surface of a fence post, which rotted right before my eyes. Canción The angle at which she faces the sun is not right. Her blue forehead leaks in the shade of the olive tree, a slow aerosol thought that leaves the shape of a heart on bark. Dogs the bodies of dogs & limp, black tire tubing deflated, the late afternoon haze, its airless dry speech a thermometer records with a thin red throat. The typewriter is so hot its metal keys burn the fingertips, its 44 hammers nearly worn to a blank alphabet. Only the question mark remains intact. Black starlings unwind a fig tree & ribbon stage right. Someone, earlier, was reading Lorca into a cool, empty well & recording it. She thinks of Lorca's lost grave, the small bones that must, by now, remain. She thinks of his teeth in the earth. Molars worn down to a few white stones, a few imprints, or one. She thinks about this mark. No sound. Evening then dusk then the night like a series of curtains, heavy, velvet, descends. No stars. Over & over she shakes the letters of his name in her head as if her head were a hand, a huge, closed hand, a fist. Alien Corn Here a field I feel folded into me with green before I see it wave, as a wave, over me. Some days it knocks my fake beard off my ears with the word "codpiece." Disguise she said is the machine's first function. Then she removed her Donald Duck mask & lay with me, down, in the field from which my mind was waving to her, here. Only later did I notice her ears. They were the ears of an alien. & still I spoke knowing their long white silk was also part of the machine, as is my hand, waving, a gesture as simple as hello, are we too far gone in this field to hear its leaving Anoles Choose the Background Into Which They Disappear All's well in my house of cards. The Queen's black eye— my window outside. I see a finch in the grass having an asthma attack. All hands on deck! I breathe using only the Designated Breathing Machine which is shaped like the body of a boneless swan. A mole below me sneezes—two quick shrieks. Furious red objects unfurl from the mouth of the dog next door. On this desert floor I can even hear what we once called the sea, how we sang by it thinking we were geniuses. Splash splash. No more immersion. The frogs with double heads are harmonizing with themselves, are calling . . . about Christian Hawkey