Light Fall and Darkness touches street and covered brick-crack and moonless crackles. Colloid collisions to scented secrets and motions without notions. We are the Queens and Kings of these streets. This ‘Sity’ is our City.
The Walker is a silhouette pushed low beneath Grand Moon rising and carved carefully ‘cross sky too close to be real and too real to be proximity’s cost, close to-shapes-to-shift-shape and nearer to buildings tossed across landfall along sea-line to skyline. Tide comes in, evening time and changes along season’s alteration same as sunrises and sunsets and shadows play beneath twin moon season with splashes of textured cloud color or star twinkles too distant to notice or too close not to catch eye when noticed in brain as spirit touches at the same time.
The Walker glides across a jumble-tumble of brushed footholds fashioned by rainwater visible; as digging, once moved dirt above rock faces and dragged these weighted ones from place to necessary place for buildings built or buildings removed-restructured-replaced or obliterated. Needed things at needed times where locations were homes and buildings-controlled landside. And! Little killer medications be, only notions of Lizard Kingdoms where the notions of you ‘peel’ums’ accessible and needed from the glory of car-trunks.
She is a Walker Warrior and claims the Bridge above the ruins of ‘City.’ Below the places of spaces, once a great tangle of yards and rails carried the price of commerce commercially to and away and beyond her bridge and dirty sea ships sailed toward one another. They bounced the line; black shadows, slowly creeping beneath an injured sky. No wind! Masts no sails. Crude! Not fueled cold furnaces and boilers empty drums with warm air. She now adjusts eyes and turns and follows silent ships passing one another. They ride the line with no wake. They do not disturb the oiled sea or change silt-less shoals beyond an invisible channel. She watches and waits for their return.
She forgets to breathe. Fog horns moan and moan again just within cones of hearing an evening rare without fog or mist. Held inside, air rushes into throat and through her nose and mouth. Sea odor and her eyes tear. Bridge time is fine and darkness safe. She searches sea. She swears the line has moved closer to shore. And! Those ships are gone.
We shift into objects of alternative daylights with the accepted expectations of extraordinary flashes of original thought and lights of magnificently creative creations through perceptions of flashing preconceived originality and congested repeaters across a wondrous land of sugar and cinnamon-spiced tea-or-coffee-or me-or-you-or-us or…In the becoming of an impression immortally important and into legacy’s realm repeated and recalled and retweeted we ‘amen’ to both; the previously consummated and the just about to transpire!
Ghost clouds block moonlight as they race clouds across the early morning sky tucked somewhere between dawn and night. And! What is the color of souls? In these dreams there be gods in this place where now only spaces remain. So! Come to Cloud early in transition time and seek flash-ride to spiral and skip into framing time.
These Memorial Gardens are filled and overflowing and encompass many miles. Commons frame these gardens. Statues cover these parks. Here are sacred places and areas and spaces and graces where families gather and depart.
Ashes-to-ashes and dust-to-dust-new-ways-to-win—we must be us!
And! Beautiful you are….
‘Can’t Find My Way Home’ by Steve Winwood Performed by — Rachael Price & Chris Thille
‘The Other Side’ by Ruelle (Margaret Eckford)
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