All About Breathing
Remember: it has never been a different sun. How strange it all would be if someone allowed Sisyphus to rest the boulder, swig some Dasani when he got nearest the top. They banned plastic bottles at the Grand Canyon a decade ago, since they have broken the blood-brain barrier, which has turned out to be more of a washed-out gravel road than an unscalable wall with many iron spires. If you hold a mirror to a flame, the sand in there still gets hot, right? Who hasn't swallowed the hot tea quick to try to burn the sore out? Or wanted to undress in a prefab home with its curtains closed while being hauled along the interstate? A fire in a mirror is still a fire, somewhere. See also my compost working through last Halloween's candy bones, yellow airsoft pellets from previous tenants. I cannot talk to the chainsaw artists tailgating me home. We won't agree on president or precedent, them thinking it's a chicken-egg thing while I'm thinking it much more oyster-pearl. I learned that independence is only a town in Missouri, early, playing The Oregon Trail, and have regretted every day since accepting the offer of sunchokes from a friend who once delighted in helping me set the oldest bee frames on fire. There is no direction left to point the gun range that is truly safe. Can I ever convince you that eating the thrift store stereograph of axe-hewn loggers and drinking the dusty display beers standing on the shelf behind the bar are the same act? Never celebrate happy hour oysters in Iowa. They are well-traveled and their shucker has a compass tattoo, serves the slices of lemon with the sticker still on them, but smaller. Surely the lemon knows already what it is, that its seeds can be planted yet in some maw of earth once friendly to citrus. Early in the morning before weddings go for skinny dips in a cold mountain lake. This is a type of avid dancing, of preserving the heart in petrol just before lighting the prayer beads with a cracked magnifying glass. After slurping, only if you must, stack the empty husks to the side and pour out your silver bowl of ice into the canyon where once there was water and soon will be again.
is a writer living and working in Marengo, Iowa. He was raised next to the Mississippi River, and has never strayed too far from it. His webite is averygregurich.com