spoiling the vanilla: a toast to the slow to cum summer.

June 14, 2011

autumn was train rides burning gold into my retinas in the shape of little trees blowing by me at a speed i could not understand.


winter burning orange safety suits of men on the tracks. they stuck out loudly against dull fields, the noise of the train quieting their screaming chatter into gaping mouths that bare teeth but say nothing.


spring is dog shit surfacing from underneath melting snowbanks. the smell draws other buried objects to the surface. people take to their closets with brooms. skeletons rattle in their dustpans.


heaps of trash on fire sending black smoke clouds into the sky. memory burning alive on the lawn. but nothing in nature disappears. the trash is out of the garage, off the lawn, no longer pink and ruffled or heart-shaped, but the microscopic black bits of it will stay in our atmosphere forever. maybe one day, when the hot smog lowers over a city you are visiting, heavy with summer, a particle from your past will land on your ice cream. spoiling the vanilla.




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