I fired up the mower although it was about to rain-- a chill late September afternoon, wild flowers re-seeding themselves in the blue smoke of the gas-oil mix. To be attached to things is illusion, yet I'm attached to things. Cold, clouds, wind, color--the sky is what the brush-cutter wants to cut, but again the sky is spared. One of two things can happen: either the noisy machine dissolves in the dusk and the dusk takes refuge in the steady rain, or the meadow wakes shorn of its flowers. Believing is different than understanding.
Chase Twichell - 1950-
A kid said you could chew road tar if you got it before it cooled, black globule with a just-forming skin. He said it was better than cigarettes. He said he had a taste for it. On the same road, a squirrel was doing the Watusi to free itself from its crushed hindquarters. A man on a bicycle stomped on its head, then wiped his shoe on the grass. It was autumn, the adult word for fall. In school we saw a film called Reproduction. The little snake-father poked his head into the slippery future, and a girl with a burned tongue was conceived.