inside the pavement juke box, where the sounds of summer traffic ring clear, the smell of canine refuse refuses to let me enjoy the scented windex I spray at the trees to make them smell more like I heard they should smell from my professor who died of thought cancer and was burried in a metalic mirror casket where I glimpsed in the laboured breathing of each shovel full of dirt the mathed and mad Fibonocci quietly counting the hair on his head -- looking for a nice round number to wrap himself in for winter warmth now the prof. is gone, and the cancer gone with him, and all I have left is this bottle of windex that smells like canine refuse which I spray endlessly into the wind and it only returns to cover and haunt me and tease me with the memory of order.
PEACE - Tristan
before || after
