An Encounter on Black Canyon Road

    Holy shit, what was that?! 

    She smelled the taste of dust in the air made turbulent by the thankfuly swerving Jeep that may've well as been a Snipe, as far as she was concerned. More concern was immediately warranted. Another monstrosity from the opposite direction had deposited two, still huge but smaller, things on the sunny path from each of its flanks. Just don't move and nothing can see me. They still approached. She watched, holding her breath as they divided and placed her between. Black rectangles appeared forward of them as she felt exceptionally watched.

    Suddenly, the more confident thing had her embraced and she was suspended over the earth, surprisingly warm in some of her spots. If I'm going to fly, I'm going find the best view. She propelled like normal, but this time it brought her up. She was a little scared but unafraid. Vibrations abounded loudly and it appeared as if the things might be communicating.

    The higher thing vibrated a response and then had some warmth, too. I'm still pretty damn high. The subservient thing awed more. We appreciated together, I think. I'm ready to go. The other thing was ready, too, apparently. 

    Falling quickly from her heavens, she breathed again. This is real but now I believe. And she safely went about her day.  

I-65 South

    There was no real reason to get into the left lane except that a pile of trash on the right shoulder was real enough for me. I didn't know what the hell was playing on the radio but it was just as terrible, so I pressed the seek button on the console for some relief. It was cold and I was sweating. I wanted to smoke but mostly wouldn't when my new bride was in the car. "Today is the anniversary of the Columbia disaster," I overheard the new channel's DJ announcing after the static. I listened for context for some seconds and, perplexed, spoke towards the gorgeous wife who already couldn't know me anymore...

 "A fuckin' space shuttle blew up?!"

Something for another day

    I thought to myself, haven't seen a crab in a while, while scrambling down from the beautifully eroded stone bluff to engage with the surf below. Still hadn't after the jaunt, but at least I'd gotten my feet wet. From this angle, it was easy to spot prehistoric sea shells poking out from shore and, also, the newer millionaires up above, probably worrying. Having been formally worn smooth by the tide and by some feet respectively, the sight persists for those who choose to view it. I looked back toward the horizon, out past the break, and felt less ancient.

Excuses

I think that we may slowly be

being poisoned by an absence of good words.

So many adjectives and such

little time to untangle them. 

When does a tale tell itself?

A tail follows, by design.

Do you hear the words when you read them?

Are they pretty?

Do they feel right?

Do you feel?

Is it such a terrible thing to find beauty everywhere?

Why did I have to hate so much before?

Why have I been so poisonous?