free floating screed (part one


After icy panics subside, I wait for the rains.

I do not drive a free floating screed.

Sporadic drippings remain wholly inadequate. I want the roadside cleansed of industrial grits.

Since restructuring the community around an idea of motorized obsolescence seemingly appears now and then a mere fantasy of some subservient distance, the daily motorized traffic persists in a vast ritual of pavement.

Bituminous binder lends plasticity to such lovely surface in a wish to make every hill level.

Each street a grease for mechanistic rapidity all gotten on credit, ice ironically impedes such forward ho leanings with an unpredictable and ass backward otherness, hence: a spreading of grits which once having dried then turbulently lift in palpable swirls.

Call this a comedy of frictions nurtured especially by cyclists who strangely insist upon breathing.

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