david schrott is everywhere

on beaches and bridges, the grainiest november.

Posted in Uncategorized by thebreakfastdictator on 11/22/2017


there was a sleek (sleak) movement over those grainy grey ripples. we tossed those rocks high in the air and then not so high and then lower and lower till they barely scraped the surface of the river. and the stick was swung harder and harder till it snapped in half because of sheer (shear) torque. find another one and let the game re-begin and re-peat until there is a winner.

fish flop down around the bend while those rocks crack the water’s covering. if you hit it from high enough up, it feels like concrete; it is concrete. at something like 96 feet, you can barely poke the surface; but if you skinny out like a pencil then maybe you have a chance. i’ve seen the townies do it. and more than once. drunk.

there was once this little white dove pigeon. we called him burt reynolds. no one can remember why, but he sat quietly in his cage on the fourth floor of the futon building. we called him forth for some photographs and he produced. at the end of his night he made his truest appearance and it was sung just oh-so-quietly; a whole second at f 2.8. november songs are sung quietly, they say. burt

we can’t access that place anymore. it is full of commercial things and there is a trendy coffee shop below, much the opposite of the one of the great peanut butter scam. that happened damn near 114 years ago, but it’s famous in these parts; so famous it still crackles from the speakers if you listen carefully. really carefully. 

the coffee is still hot there, even at 11pm. the symbolism is latent, so latent it’s intuitive. there is this other one with a watering-can and an upside-down umbrella and a wind-blown scarf (blown gently). it was pointed out well after the fact, but there it is. right in front of you, so quiet you almost miss it.

and when you turn to the right there’s a fuzzy bridge. it’s drenched in grain. that painty painted grain you might see when the winter’s been harsh a few too many years in a row. it starts to rust, then it starts to peel and the sing-songy rhythm of its smoothness starts to ruffle, like burt did when we tried to pry him from his cage. it flakes to the surface below and then one day, when the spring brings new warm air, there is a gaggle of men climbing and jostling for position to clean it up. and by the time the cold air returns, so has the smoothness. just like it was the day that bridge was layed. it’s not fuzzy anymore, it’s just that… that…that…the picture is a little out of focus. the camera may have been dropped or bumped or the wind blew it a little to hard.

one second at 2.8.