Ancient apercus from December 2007

Food and cavities tear at the seams

Ethan Switch - Wednesday, December 26, 2007 - 21:02:12

Only enough holes in the mouth to carry little pools of water. Not much to port from the dry riverbed. Still, without such a high dose to lap up, there's not much to spill. Watching out for spillage means wasting time on other things. Things such as feeding on food already gone. On sweating and leaving chalk lines of salt. And of lying in the open where crickets find their way inside other holes best not housing crickets. Or cicadas. Or any other bugs and insect truth be told.

No water. No food. Not anything.

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Painted dolls for all the cows

Ethan Switch - Wednesday, December 19, 2007 - 22:12:38

Drifting off sleep, careful of the surrounds. Keeping eye on nearby objects, obstacles and other things. Falling away into the magical land of unconsciousness. Not so bad when with the right twist of rug burning and neck rubbing. On a plain of barren dirt, the luxury unfound. No plantation wears more naked grass than the desert wannabe.

Man eating cows are not sexist. They discriminate not between the three genders on the buffet. Each limb is as tasty as the next. So long as no leprosy or scabies touch their meals, it's all good. No judgements, no dealings. No fair warnings either in waking up their next platter of bones, meat and hair.

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On the ground she comes back down

Ethan Switch - Wednesday, December 12, 2007 - 23:43:02

Leaving intentions behind, she grasps at the short straws. Fist full of grass and hers is handed right back. Never mind there being no long straws. That's all academic with a twist of lemon sprinkled with a salty edge. Lines cut sweet tension in the hairline slits that appear open on the cracking corners of mouths and upper arms. Rub it in for good measure, it's all about the application really.

Life fills itself with hairy armpits and furry throats on the mornings before the nights after. Taking one strand of chance is a choice of the blind. Flying down south for the winter she picks up a towel to wrap around her left leg. Falls better that way. Easier to tumble into the roll. Saves bones breaking really. Travel insurance doesn't exist here. And towels are what remain from the pelt of others in the camp.

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Running a breeze that's long winded

Ethan Switch - Wednesday, December 5, 2007 - 22:42:32

Sweat plies a lucid transcript of evaporation on the neck. Grime carving a niche underneath the fingernails as the pressure of life gets the better of two halves. One for the west, one for the south. Both in dire need of winning the fight over the last can of water. Where that can lies, however, remains to be seen.

Much like the rock. Tight in the palm; fast on the down swing. Burden of slight fright on the first might, each successive connect for the thirst. For the thirst on each second third. Smooth to a point for the wild and hairy gushing of raw emotion. Water and food made fodder if wooed.

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horse storie

Belvedere Jehosophat - Tuesday, December 4, 2007 - 21:32:03

Down by Msario’s and next to the S_dney Sign Compa_y, right under the high-tension power lines, is where they found the body of the horse and its rider. Equidae and the damage done, "death a shock," quipped a headline.

Electromagnetic fields organized into concentric circles, and a horse’s stride just long enough to bridge two. Neither the thin skin of the rider nor the relatively thicker, dirtier skin of the horse was enough to prevent the passage of charged particles. Paralysis of the respiratory and cardiovascular systems eventually coming as welcome relief from the burning skin and arteries newly choked by clots.

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