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| fig.97) "The porous edges of cinema may yet be redeemed or resolved." |
Juniper, cedar and all that's old tends to settle on the bus in the corner by this door. It's not quick, joints are popping like failure. Left alone in the kitchen, looking for matches until it can light the stove. "There once was a night here," I've said as much before.
Corn conjured syrup from the corn that I brought from the back of the store. The simple pleasure of falling into that warm slip isn't like drying off or tempting the man at all. It's a lottery with pages of never knowing it all the first time that I was there.
A three way intersection where the street is wet. There's shrink-wrap that's been spooled across each of the pedestrian walkways. It's secured with bulky knots to the street lamp, the sign post and the scooter at each of the corners. There's a garage door or something else done up in yellow with blue steel doors. In the street there's garbage and soon enough an umbrella will join your car keys.
There's already coffee and meat and there's cobbler on the table from that ornery hen with the broken beak.
Slow eyed igneous slut, muled and dragged by a brown bell, a new shoe, a patient brush of hands.
Hollowed from homes, the place where people tend to sleep alone these days. Outside looking at the natural disposition of both the garden and the wall. Looking at the hard rock and the soft pine as it lines up against the sky. We're walking and talking about sharing truth.
"I think that if it's there then it will be in all of the old toys and sometimes when I look, I can see a certain bird like composure in them."
I've seen you nod like this then, too. "No overtime, none here?" I sit to drink beside the flowers with their beechnut smell of spit and something more dull than all of the nearby space.
A three way intersection where the street is wet. There's shrink-wrap that's been spooled across each of the pedestrian walkways. It's secured with bulky knots to the street lamp, the sign post and the scooter at each of the corners. There's a garage door or something else done up in yellow with blue steel doors. In the street there's garbage and soon enough an umbrella will join your car keys.
There's already coffee and meat and there's cobbler on the table from that ornery hen with the broken beak.
Slow eyed igneous slut, muled and dragged by a brown bell, a new shoe, a patient brush of hands.
Hollowed from homes, the place where people tend to sleep alone these days. Outside looking at the natural disposition of both the garden and the wall. Looking at the hard rock and the soft pine as it lines up against the sky. We're walking and talking about sharing truth.
"I think that if it's there then it will be in all of the old toys and sometimes when I look, I can see a certain bird like composure in them."
I've seen you nod like this then, too. "No overtime, none here?" I sit to drink beside the flowers with their beechnut smell of spit and something more dull than all of the nearby space.
"More than me too."
"Definitely."
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