Josh Gallivan

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A Blog Post


August finally came in with a blast that shook my house and augured little augusticity. I made raspberry jello the color of rubies in the setting sun. Mad raging sunsets poured in seafoams of cloud through unimaginable crags, with every rose tint of hope beyond, I felt just like it, brilliant and bleak beyond words. Everywhere awful ice fields and snow straws; one blade of grass jiggling in the winds of infinity, anchored to a rock. To the east, it was grey; to the north, awful; to the west, raging mad, hard iron fools wrestling in the groomian gloom; to the south, my fathers mist. Jack mountain, his thousand foot rock hat overlooked a hundred football fields of snow. Cinnamon creek was an eyrie of scottish fog. Shull lost itself in the golden horn of bleak. my oil lamp burned in infinity. “Poor gentle flesh,” I realized, “there is no answer.”

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