There are old
houses there. Some are weathered away and the shingles broken, fallen, flaxen
and frayed. Others have been redone, and sit smartly in the late summer sun
under cumulus clouds and a bird, incredibly small and impossibly fast, zips by
on its way somewhere else. Birds are like that, always on the way somewhere
else, and live in a liminal space, a transitory mindset. Nomadic bird.
Itinerant bird. Emigrated bird. Bird on a wire…but not for long, no, hey. There
is an old cemetery up the large hill were the departed rest, all bones and
dust, under the shaded earth. The long street down the way. Apartments atop
stores, some of the stores aren’t stores but eateries. Odd people,- some are
poor and use the equivalent of the mission, and its peculiar, because if you
know people, societies,- just a bit,- it can be seen that these don’t walk only
beside and by working class, or upper class, but are there next the affluent
and super-affluent. The super affluent ones are biggest bore, - like pa-leeze,
- and then as human beings go, as a rule anyways- there are exceptions as the
man says, - it gets less boring from there. Well the sun is high, the clouds
still like a picture, the fountain in the distance spurts water, thrown to the
air by the power of a pump, motor, bearings. Once one travels through there and
out the other side, - what is met with are the mundane strip plazas, the
mediocre urban sprawl, and things become duller than dull. But for a moment
there, before, was something, and inkling of creativity, interest, moxy,
flavor, color, character, even dare one say, - poetry.
We must hold
fast to that.
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