Whether or not the sad clean breath of a new house resists human life (books pots photographs living and dying plants) balks at being used for living rejects all offerings flowers quilts other offenses cut-glass vases shrouded dim lamps rich heartwood bookcases glassfronted cabinets containing porcelain and metal artifacts pried from the hot loins of interstate antique malls these offerings to the domestic altar go unheeded my house stands alone out of human time refusing to scale itself to the dimensions of human life new bright oak staircases sharply grooved cabinets fresh plastered walls hung with mossy greengray paper born in a state of entropy my house has developed a certain dumb cunning with which it frees itself from the desperate embrace of the human owner and if the human mind does not decrease in capacity and functionality it will continue to require the same from language compression and simplification in one area is theoretically balanced out by increasing enrichment or complexity in another.
This was a worship of endless nameless creatures, plant spirits rising.
They drank water from their troughs, lounging nectarine teens fluent in Pali.
At the very ends they meet, ardent children with unwashed feet.
Raised botanists, they were baby bohemians with dirtied flesh.
During the world’s decay, they gathered with fear of impending melodrama-
Breathing in the fragrance of the Earth’s ends,
Renée Zellweger took a year out of college to count wolves in the wild. This is where she met Vincent D’Onofrio. Vincent D’Onofrio wanted to become a boxer. But he also liked counting wolves. He had a mustache.
Renée Zellweger: I don’t think you should become a boxer.
Vincent D’Onofrio: But I want to.
Renée Zellweger: Ok. But.
Vincent D’Onofrio took Renée’s criticism to heart and instead took an acting roll where he played a writer who wrote a story about a boxer.