We got the asphalt sealed last weekend.
Mel likes the job done when it’s temperate.
One might say, “We create environments of change.” Another, perhaps, “It’s important to be a community.”
They’ve got dozens of tithes without influence placing bets on the circumference of their dreams.
I think maybe I’ll just drive away. Write: “I love you more than ______.”
in crayon next to a piece of lime.
But, I’m barely awake and these strings can’t open anything.
The curb that runs down Main Street shines bright in the sunset. You walk down the ‘Welcome’ mat and covet the pillow candy. Sitting in the corner booth we stare at the highway.
It’s almost endless until it changes.
When the sulphur lights start to flicker.
Their grass becoming wheat.
How rare it is to find each other,
surrounded by the bustle,
experiencing the rain together
as if it was a beach
in the middle of the summer.
Moderately sized squares with properly scaled rectangles–doorways without thresholds which dictate the perimeter of the common area.
Far from the Rhodesian vale whose fertility depends on an infrequent rain.
Amidst sheets of paper with thicknesses no greater than .097 mm–colloquies bound for an eye to read pile themselves upon each other and wait for the tips of his fingers to smooth and carry them across the room.
There are streams which only last for minutes that cut landscapes and take lives. They rush past the satiated promise of family cloaked in ambivalence. And, then, sink into the soil which once supported them.
As a boy, he would sit at the corner of his father’s driveway. There was often little else during those moments save the sounds of neighbors coming home from work and of the various sprinkler systems which would activate just as the sun began to disappear beneath the horizon. Once, before the moths and mosquitoes, he watched a hawthorn blossom glide on the warm currents of air which rose from the top of the asphalt; falling and rising yet always parallel to the ground: That, he remembers having thought, is what I’ll be when I grow up.
Yellow corn 4078
White corn 4077
Green zucchini 4851
Yellow squash 4788
Watermelon cut 4360
Watermelon Slices 4361
Clear Escape Enter item number quantity print
The dowry signs line the highway looking like billboards for tourist attractions.
I can see through you, but I can’t be sure.
If the obviousness of this ploy fails.
What does that say about us?
Does it convey that we’re undone?
Does it tell them what they want us to know?
So much depends on the algebra we never learned.
“Another bright flash.”
“Probably just a surge–they come all the time these days.”
“You ever notice how the sand feels differently?”
She walks out to bass drums.
“You think they can tell?”
“If she’s everything they need?”
In spring, the sun sets across the leaves.
The satellites record their deeds.
“We’ve got a couple choices, I think.”
“How can you ever pretend to believe in what they’d need?”
“Remember, when the days went easy? It wasn’t peace. But we did our best to make them see.”
A couple kids can’t matter in the scheme of things.
He picks up the phone.
“We’re brothers, remember? We’ve got each other’s back…”
An empty street.
“This is the tool you’ll need–strip the marked leads. Are you listening?”
“I just want her to be okay.”
“This is okay. What you want is change. Which is fine. It’s probably what Annie wants, anyway.”
“Jump in the truck. It’s elegant.”
“Can it make it back?”
“Does it matter?”
“How many did she say?”
She said, “They’re it. You. You can’t let what you don’t know really happened make what you know is bad happen just because they tell you to.”
An Etsy seller hires a down and out author to write a few descriptions of items.
Good descriptions. At first. Then, the writer falls in love. Such inspiration, very addictive. The descriptions go viral.
People start buying items. They realize: when an item sells out–the descriptions disappear forever.
Items stop selling. The owner’s family needs money. The media has its story.
The love of the writer is distraught. The writer is as well.
The writer thinks of a way to save the love’s family. The writer suggests they close the shop abruptly.
There is outcry.
The family opens a new shop. All the same items. They cost a fortune.
People pay outrageous prices
to read descriptions.
Moments that at first seem inconsequential often later become memories because they were originally consequential to another.
We walked down the slope under a pre-storm sky–it gave everything that certain light. Toward the museum and past the bar which somehow looked threatening at night. “There’s a part of the exhibit I want you to see.” “Oh, yeah?” “Only if we have time. Hear the sounds from above? They’re piped down the sides.” “Ugh, eerie.” “I know. Amirite?”