The slanted rain took away perpendicular lines. Waterproof lipstick, a first-world commodity.

The man collecting cans did not know how to count them. The store owner did not cheat him, and the man was able to buy two single servings of wine. When he drank them later in the parking lot, did he forget about home?

Already one thought of winter and missed the sound of rain falling and background bird trills. Missed walking barefoot in wet grass soothing feet tired from standing too many hours with too  many diplomas. Dreams of the ocean would make everything palatable, at least. Until anxiety wound the sleeping subject into a top that couldn’t stop spinning.

The men come and go speaking of golf, a beloved giant poodle on chemo, a mother who doesn’t remember her name. The oblivious children frolic with lollipops. A woman drinks cheap vodka with her cats while knitting socks.

Canvases purchased should be larger than the subject, a colossal door opening. Green for summer grass, blues for the sea or sky, yellow primrose and forsythia stars. Purple for irises already lost, orange for burnishing sunfall.

The cicadas will be earlier tonight and remind that the days relinquish toward autumn. How things will be defined by what they are not. July is not January. Money is not water. Not everything can be counted. Not everything can be lost.

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2 Responses to ITERATIONS OF SUMMER /4

  1. Tin Penny says:

    I particularly LOVE ITERATIONS O S/; how careful you are, the carry-through of theme and elements. The episodically pronounced pleasure/pain human thing. The human thing: recognition of the eerily unfamiliar otherwise inaccessible, being inadequately realized. Absence of euphemism, plethora of situation, unobscured perpendicularity, emergence, translucence. It’s all about philosophy then. It’s all about philosophy, then. Thanks! What do I owe?

  2. Tin Tom Penny Petty says:

    Did you really write all of these? Too incredible and beyond any current measure. Who knew?
    “ The men come and go speaking of golf, a beloved giant poodle on chemo, a mother who doesn’t remember her name.”
    Who can express the inner truth so much? Anyone?

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