Boy Gets Stuck in E
Well, Well come back to the Department of Homeland Inspiration's FAF fifteen (just saying that causes me to spit at my scrreeen).
I'd rather get splashed by Robin Brailsford's doglegs:
From Diane Gage (who brings us poem of the week)
Security boxes for rock roses:
(sheesh i hope they don't detonate some day)
and uh rock:
And from good heavens, RubberNeck Anonymous, a dismember of our community:
Right now, we are going to see some Found Art relayed via words, since sometimes you are driving an automobile with your own hands and there is no camera available at the moment of revelation. Why are some images so irrevocably rememberable? Yet most are part of a steady tedium of flow, layered over and never to be called forth again.
1) She is driving home from somewhere and going up the familiar regular hill with an old landfill on one side and a municipal golfcourse on the other and it's a crisp clear morning and she sees that the roadside beautification and safety crew wearing orange vests has painted a new outrageously toothpaste sparkle white line designating the shoulder of the road. As she motors up the hill, her eyes note that the new thick white line travels over a lump which at close range, she sees to be really a dead possum, squarely pasted over with a clean white line atop its rigor mortis belly and onward with the road edge. An on purpose accident?
2) Yesterday, she goes to the bagel store drive-up window and as she's calling out her baker's dozen, talking to the sign that talks. She accidently looks up at the signage on the side of the building and sees a birds nest nestled right there in the big red lightbox block letter a on the building, a bird's nest messily yet gently layed right there in the lower loop of the a, the egg-shaped oval of the a, protected by it's overhang. Not in the big B lower loop, not in the little top hut of the e, or the open-armswing below, not even the upper oval of the g and certainly not on the dangerous shelf of the L, Just nested in the a, what a lovely place to wait. Then she drives forth to pick up the order, and while catching the $2.53 change in palm, she looks up to the Bagel sign on the other facet of the building and sees yet another nest nestled in the oval of the a. And that is enough to trigger the memory of our honeymoon (very nearly twenty years ago) in Kansas (that's another story), when there was featured prominently in the o of the Bowling Alley, a very large strawbuilt birdsnest gathered there to brighten the 100 degrees in the evening heat that basted us while we walked back to our motel with a purple crushed velvet bedspread, in the middle of a wheatfield with a broken piano.
PEACE be with you
and Art on the Range