Source: mattpondpa.com --- Sunday, July 30, 2017
It’s not like that. The scent is not entirely lost. The Windows still pull shapes from the sky. The door is a constant summons to more. What an easy and amazing walk uptown. Brilliant yellow incandescent scenes framed by branches, heavy with swollen leaves. A stumbling couple weaves through shadows, using signs as walking sticks, enmeshed and exchanging limbs. The same shadows where the silent, banished smokers hide. Only the embers give them away, a pulsing glow from gaping porch darkness. Loitering bbq smoke and the charred smell of skunk spray. The trains from midtown wail, lumbering metal cetaceans chasing tail. Lazy deeds delivered, block by block, clanging absentmindedly through intersections and out past the city limits. The sidewalks here, persistently flippant. Always uneven, as if recovering from an earthquake or set in place by stroppy teenagers, the dangerous sons and daughters of sloppy masons. In the village, time could be anytime. The candy store is open late. The coffee shop is closed early. Each individual adhering to their own circadian rhythm. Revolutionary yawns under breezy awnings. Summer rules mean that there are no rules. The worst feelings are easily flipped on their backs, convulsing in laughter. The margins are wide enough to let streetlights shine through until dawn cuts in. Clothing is optional. Years have passed, yet we are still the same scouts behind a curtain of muscle and fur. The fabric of ours ...
from Windows http://ift.tt/2uL6Lwt
No comments:
Post a Comment