s w i f t s  &  s l o w s: a quarterly of crisscrossings

Out of Town
Cassandra E. Cammarata & Gregory Scott Mirell

←back or next→

I had seen this couple, wading below, and just began to think about them.
put things in them: achievements, regrets, catches of eyes, figs, blood, limes.
obviously not romantic; brother and sister; younger brother, older sister.
connected through pain, but then i thought why not just write the scene and forget about it?
They will just become innate tableaus choked on my pages.

something told me to get familiar with a word: scour. so, i did. and yes, i often imbibe on those plots,  not of my own. I do not question their source, as in such skips the brine and leaves little to taste.
so…sour: scrub, rub, clean, wash, cleanse, wipe; polish, buff (up), shine, burnish; abrade.
“she scoured the over and cleaned out the cupboards” or no, something like, she scoured
the light, the reds and the pinks, the finger that pointed to a distance too far.

how rough,
“especially by swift-flowing water.”

a woman with a star and a moon on her eyes.
she was warm and asked about my plans.
I did not know her, but she was warm; she asked about my plans.

←back or next→

◊ ◊ ◊

Cassandra Esteen Cammarata has always been a hybrid. A sinuous east coast meat braised each year by midwestern summers of purposeful drift. A quixotic child without modesty rooted deep within the fleshy walls of a woman’s magnanimity. The breezy concretist, the clear cryptic, the moral pervert; this dichotomy creates not balance, but volatility. And, as in atoms, the volatile creates exchange and a constant, mutable
Life is of the fat, humanity; the butcher. You can find more of her words/visuals on stucksweet.com