Patrick Skahan

I think I can taste the air that flows into my lungs. Crisp and warm for this time of year. It smells of rain or snow or hail or incompetence. The jest stream hangs like a giant armpit over the Midwest. There is a destructor at work that feeds of paper on which is printed deceased presidents. No longer does a bell toll or a phone ring, but a child coughs in your ear. SPEND! SPEND! SPEND! The birds are confused and can't figure out whether to fly or die when the air gets cold and the earth turns to stone to rock. An average guy in an average town with an average life and job and disappointments and problems sits and preys for snow. He smokes or drinks or eats or stands or sits or screams at the sky, the moon, the clouds. Snow m**********r he yells as his snowboard collects dust. I am that average guy.