Saturday, May 07, 2011

Local Bubble...

I'll bottle you yet, damned elusive sublime thing that climbs inside and mocks the day with immodest eyes and molten core. Mark my worms! Your camelback knife-edge prickling skin tricks are mine. I'm chasing those blue-green jackrabbits over blowing grass ridges, under clear lakes, splicing into electric braids of nerves and root hairs, end to end, tiptoe rib vistas, black jungle vines, bolting across a red-orange thorax full of neatly combusting suns. I'm bagging your rhythms, breathing your gasses, logging your architecture, jam jars of aerial ecstasy and subterranean secrets. All of it.

("Oil Spill #13" by Ed Burtynsky)


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