2004-09-16 - 8:44 p.m.
Goldenrod's blazing across unused fields and black-eyed susans wave on the roadsides. Less chicory and more dry grass.
I get angry at the power and telephone poles, reaching up and stabbing the sky, stabbing the horizon line over and over and over again. Piercing weapons like the wooden and velvet case of knives on my father's wall, knives purchased with the money he made by climbing those damn stabbing poles.
all we've got is an old ball of string
