August. Caramel sky seething screeching belching forth with all it’s froth. The birds. The ridiculous color. The squinting, the panting. The human ways. The ridiculous jokes. The scathing- earth, the corruption. All the heat and the corrosive talk. Who can help from being just a little bit anxious? What will autumn bring?
Say that again… you can’t be serious. I’d die if I ever had to do that. I’d fall over and just… drop dead. You can’t be serious.
Glass wool filter 86
The children’s toys are packed up in little boxes in the shed behind the garage. Rats got in there last year and made nests in the doll’s dresses. Sweet dresses. Sweet girls. Bad rats. Dirty bad rats. Blocked up the entrances with steel mesh. The holes let in air. Too small for rats to crawl through. Sweet dresses. Sweet girls. Dirty rats. Bad and dirty rats.
For Carmen and Her #162.
So small now. Everything’s compressed. The world’s been crushed. The size of an egg now. The size of a chicken’s egg. Very heavy. Very tight. Lift it. Throw it. Don’t worry… it won’t break. You can’t break this egg. You’re in the egg. We’re all in the egg. You can’t break it anymore than you can break yourself. Not entirely true you say. No, you can’t break. Not now. Not from now on.