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{privacy} aaron belz When every word sounds cliché, each turn of phrase derivative, that’s when I turn to slapstick and boorish sexual innuendo. Usually, in a real beer garden, tables are heavier, harder to topple, glasses sit thickly amidst condensation, and a river goes on and on nearby. Sometimes thunder wakes every phosphorescent sea-animal while its accompanying lightning photointegrates itself with leaves. Christy came toward our party without elegance, stumbling in her boots, a can of Carlsberg in each hand, and I was on my cell phone. “They wanted the hemmed garments that lay nestled among antiques lifted up and glorified in the sun and left out to bake the mold away. “They winced at porticoes that sat as if emancipated from roofs, because they glared so wholesomely and because they were so beautiful.” Encapsulated thus, her thoughts became as fine night smokes that curl together up under their table’s striped umbrella, and without even needing to embarrass myself I stood up and excused myself, crisscrossed the gravelly center garden as a drop, and then another drop, fell. |
