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{a trap} luc simonic it's late. it's early. it's that time of year again. all the sensations numbed by ice begin their steady journey from earth to bloom, from branch to blossom. tonight is that time of wonder; as easily could have been tomorrow, or next week, or some mid-morning while the girls were off at ballet or gymnastics. i understand the movement more as days pass - lines of communication initiating choices initiating long passages from the here to the there where a mute dance prescribes the sounding off of a false yet hopelessly powerful hope that these sensations will somehow surpass our five primary appendages. generations. wars. public displays. secrets. Order. i long to make a garden in my backyard. there is this something that kills only caterpillars by obliterating their digestive tract and rendering their ability to consume, useless: "Bacillus Thuringiensis" - i wonder what is more appealing; vegetables or butterflies? vegetables or moths? my backyard is weeds, with a thin hearty strip of strawberries. inside chairs, counter-tops, couches, God-forbid; beds. appliances. threats. relics of men. clothe. |
