Journal 8 – Dried Currents

The breath of the afternoon was gray but warm –
somehow transparent in the evening calm. Another
bridge before the day decays like simple plutonium –
whatever that is. Forgotten is what I see each day.
The bees are forgotten and the ants; the sycamore
tree is sliced to death when the fever comes to
town. Night night. The afternoon delays my thoughts
like a constipated woman in tight underwear. My
thoughts are dried and parched from the winter sleep in
heat and wine – dried up like a desert stream, no
currents to fire and connect ideas like webs. Spiders
have so much to teach about design and beauty – the
unapproachable kind.

2.11.09