Mental Landscapes

After enough reading sometimes you’ll visit landscapes pinned to the author.

It’s found between the acrylic distances, as best put. By words used, and how it shaves shellings into the sandbox we’re sharing. The way you can place “God” close to “fallow”, and it’s the lattice that begins to determine the vanishing point, its palette or however sparse.

One shall stand observant to the typewriting in the abandoned Carpenter Gothic with all the wheat surrounding, sure wilting. Dust lining the windows. The chair has a forty year creak and the mold blooms in the water damage by the entrance. When they put down “sunset” one can feel the wind pass through both hollows: the ricketed door and ribcage, out between the few wood crosses of the backyard, or what remains of it. The fences seem burrowed in weed.

More interesting is what’s missing. As one leans by the mailbox so it seems certain, how the rest of this place has no remnants of modernity. Skyscrapers as sure intrusion, fiction, or weird worshipping centers to succumb in its erosion. So we roam this eternal golden and sliced jungle, subdued by each gale and unburdened by all the complexity that seeks to bureaucratically justify itself, impose itself through billboards. Through the scenery. Let the barrels and tires tossed about the path be the only companions. In a long trek toward the empty gas station & edge of the world.

One can only wonder if the author is aware such worlds are flowing between their works.

Or how many take a visit.