can't shine shit

Candied these tiny berries still bear evidence of the overnight frost and the spray from the rushing creek beside.


Turned back upon itself in a vain attempt to document the temple sweat from too much activity by the monks churning the wheels that drive the gears that make the smoke that indicates there is a brain fire somewhere.


Very stuffed bottle top of cotton comprises the sky oppressive and dreary. The stuffing lifted ever so slightly, enough to see the snow bound land below, pretty soon it'll all be snow.


From a universal template of design engineered to elicit imaginary places a swirl of smoke as bark hides the fantastic in the common.


Moist and succulent cuts of beef as visual evidence: if it smells like shit . . . it probably is.