it's_august_again raze this month's bird belches a black speech bubble bereft of words. its hair is an unruly mess. so is mine. there's a paper airplane in the garden. the same kind of ruled sheet we scratched our souls into when we were prepubescent desk jockeys. i could never build an aircraft worth a damn. god knows i tried. it always went wrong somehow. every landing strip a fibrous massacre waiting to happen. something hides between the folds of this one. some symbol set down with wood-hugged graphite. a face with a crooked mouth and two x's for eyes. like the vessel it decorates, no great amount of thought went into making it. but when i hold the abandoned glider by the base between the slats and shove it into the air, it floats until it flies. i fuel it with all i feel and trust it has the strength to reach you. 220801 what's it to you? who go blather from