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.
Chase Twichell - 1950-
Stirred Up By Rain
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.