What’s the point, Wednesday beckoned. As my dead German teacher uttered, jogging.
They’ve got the spooky eyes, standard orientation to truth. Pyramid of monitors covering the store,
Minding the pavement beyond shag floor. Not scrutinized here, the wind winding through the reeds through the grasses, Permian permafrost to blue, it’s a surrealistic style embedded in the embroidery of mountainous snout. We pulled the video and the team member had as found nicked the sunglasses. Equinox thistle breath. Sweep up those maggots, bleach in the eye. The willows don’t you know what you’ve got here, monitoring ceaseless stopped in the river of scotch broom, waste flora. I’ve seen the dark squirrels go by, rain isolates.
By Jonathan Falk
June 20, 2014