2006-06-06 - 11:20 a.m.
If only you could decipher this town full of picnic smells. You walk through your past and watermelons, your mom smiles, she makes you edgy you wonder: can you reconstruct the entire city from a discarded watermelon seed and the smell of humid pavement, chicken, automobiles and swimsuits?
The town makes itself a dirty picnic, sticky grass and urgent ants, a three legged dog in a party hat, and, waking up folded into some couch with a distinct sense of yesterdays beer, you try to make your primitive mind focus those argent beams which could be called pain or, perhaps, synaesthetically, rays of light, into a discernible message about the technology of boredom and rage, but it all falls through the keyhole of the pavement smell which is dusty but not dry, which hints at jasmine and semen, which boils at the edge of your simple mind as you know if you just upgraded your software you could deduce, from the (AMERICAN RAPE SUMMER MEMORIAL DAY BARBECUE CORN ON THE COB AND USED CONDOMS IN THE PARK) smell, that odor of softball games gone wrong, you could deduce from its particular combination of festivity and animal doom, more specifically from certain chemical components in the air which are heightened in their olfactory impact by temperature and moisture, you could deduce from these the oncoming wave of sadness and whiskey in which you swore you would not be entangled. However, you merely cower at the fringes of this awareness, ride the flat tired bike down the potholed street and pick up a twelve pack on the way.
