| u_turn_where_possible | ||
| stork daddy |
driving up the small suburban landslide, articles of family and achievment and chores, constantly being forgotten by continuing to be. a quaint patio, a tipped over red recycling bin, and the little houses dotting the hills like figurines. they stop at the mountains. and god damn if you don't seem the only real thing, possibly also the mountains. at night sometimes you drive up to them, but you have to stop. because you already know there's just more roads on the other side of them. it envelops the valley houses like the walls of a crib. later one such night, in one such town, you go to a small bar. in the bathroom a fake id kid goads his friend - "use it or lose it" this drink that drink, stand in for possibility, maybe threaten to open something in an otherwise static mountain. her eyes, your eyes, are there roads already there? none that you know. that's how recycling bins end up on a quaint patio tipped, in the shadow of a mountain. |
061227 |