CHRIS REPPUCCI

The hand which quivers above the quiver, not from fear, but from something in the air, more like a liquid medium the body walks through to proceed in steady motion on the trail of its moving target which is both everywhere and somewhere hidden away in a far off sector of the unsurveyed area. Our pursuits, both romantic and rashly real take us off map into uncharted territory where insights incinerate the paper wrapped powder charges we brought along at night when we wait in

The needles jump and twitch as the paper streams through like a ribbon of dry milk electrified by a frozen bolt of graphite static coursing cross parallel lines, the thin solid strips of time that host the erratic rise and fall of everything contained between eon ends. Outside the mile thick solid stone walls are lead wires that tap through the bare crust and pierce down into the bedrock, boring nearly to the mantle, where sensitive nodules operate on the seismic vibrations

The tunnels of the Temple Of Confusion flush with emotional fluid, swell with romantic waters, cascade in intuitive significance, like a great skull floating through an eternal sea, the liquid filtering through its salt softened sinus passages whispering a narrative into a dreamers ear, dreaming they are awake, going about their business as usual but much further and wider and vaster and deeper than normal, the periphery of their perception scrolls back to reveal more of the

In the interim between dark Moons the fiery red hot rod melted into a paddle wheel river boat, sending fans slowly through the muddy slurry, and the sky high hot air balloon shrunk into an Ox landing four hooves into the muck with a muffled thud. In the ditch where we found ourselves bailing brown water from the puddle into the channel pale by pale we could still remember yesterdays fission, the sparks and nuclear chain reactions that spat out newspaper clippings and inciner