A single dew drop on the watermelon sprout, a tiny spider crawls over the misshapen leaf exploring the cavity of folded foliage, drops down silk web and crawls up again. My breath moves him in the still morning. The lady two houses down smokes cigarettes and coughs harshly and the birds sing anyway: it’s summer, the mimosa tree has bloomed and the days are hot. I spent the last two days in the studio, working, twenty some new pieces – a few finished – maybe? Robin redbreast hops across the yard, dog barks in the distance, cloudy sky – little flower sprouts on the table… the night dies every morning.
The coffee’s gotten cold and I can’t find a single vision the strange sound of a passing plane, a lightning bug walking across the deck rail. The old place ringing in my ears, this place breathing in my chest and through the window you sleep. Cardinal, buzzard – the low hum of insects, power lines and cars on far away roads. The sun pulls out from a cloud and rains light so loud I wince, bathing the studio yellow white and the shadows of leaves. Patagonia (giant dragonflies and the smell of rotting vegetation)

the fairytale is over…

…The coffee’s gotten cold and I can’t find a single vision the strange sound of a passing plane, a lightning bug walking across the deck rail. The old place ringing in my ears, this place breathing in my chest and through the window you sleep…

…Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross;
Within be fed, without be rich no more.
So shalt thou feed on Death, that feeds on men,
And, Death once dead, there's no more dying then.

Ashes of roses
traces of passion
swallowed by the Aether
as though they never happened…

it was an iron table painted white, a table that will last for centuries, there was a small bowl of flowers in the center, wilted dead flowers hanging from sad limp stems

Distant Memories of the Penny Arcade…

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