Saturday, March 3, 2007
When someone offers you a box smelling of stately delights, don't presume to know destinies of lost fowl. Grow yourself silky wings, waxen feet, and sudden circuses of plumed neighbors, who, when, if dancing, forget how to take down shelves of tiny, tiny oeuvres. When no one screams towards the box. If by chance I misplace suddenly your unforgettable design, you must forgive, if, slowly, things erupt around my presumptions. I, Seth Landman, implore devouringly that feathers in chicken be encoded with tiny recipes in tiny Sanskrit braille gestures.