stagnanTVowels

fig. 942) dirt makes us many when the truth makes us lie "Things could be more different if we had their trust still. There could be enough time for thinking things through. We probably wouldn't let them just go like that." "The box, the white walls and the basement below it were always easy to fill up. We didn't even need to ask. Just dig a hole and people would write about it." In the dark, the ruined lath and smashed plaster is reminiscent of crazy knuckles and slick cartilage whomped until it's really sticky. Death sits underneath the broken roof. Death is making themself some beans. They're stirring the hot can with a limber stalk from an elm tree while muttering, "Haven't we aimed low enough already." "Any lower and we'd have to pull up the rug to find what was hit," they answer to themselves. "We'll have stop and make this park our home. We can live behind the vending machines and we'll blah blah ...

fig. 087) est tempus fugit Fraxinus is a good hard wood at market but its leaves are wild. The ash almost always turns early in the autumn, surging bright and hot into the shorter cooler nights of fall. But the magic in them is gone. Instead, they're drunk on the juice of the summer's lilies and ferns that are scattered everywhere by the squirrels and the breast heavy log nymphs. Many of the trees are slack and thin with hangover and the house sits behind the wreck of their wobble drunk. Peeking through, it's tossed eves bang away in the long winds off the lake. The garage is poor in both it's purpose and execution but the less I say of this, the better. There's rotting wood that's ratty with bird shit and worm stuff. It's busy descending into the grass out front. The doors are gone and all of the windows are broke. The smaller rocks, the good throwing stones are inside with ache of the mildew that's spreading over the high birch paint along the with...