With wobbly legs you stretch out onto the Venusian surface. Walking, the sky is dull black and the ground yellowed. There is no hope…but you remain open, you cut the cascade short and listen. You look at the ground, and you look at the sky, even though its staleness hurts and you are at a loss.
Kicked off of his perch, a new sea gull shows up. This one sits further back. Branches dart up in front of the building, like frayed broom sticks burned up in a house-fire. Light slips past each branch and decorates the wall in full, so it is a beautiful day. A dark green bush hides at the base of the trees, to mourn its place.
The seagull has crumpled its neck in comfort. It is cold.
A siren call! It blasts in a perfect sphere, radiating in six directions. A siren call…it is heartless and honest and failing all at once.
The Gods have smoked a cigarette for the hour. They lie back and gawk. I am able to function more evenly. At the age of 23…if any order is to re-form…it will take up that structure, of personalities.
Space ends in a salt-lick, a half-deposited waste-land and we’ve picked the word “history”.
We would be doomed, if not for the lovely personality of our problems.
Imagination and mind on a table of physical sensations. Starting at the crown or the wobbly legs of the table, you walk through the space of your problems. And find it a beautiful place that you were misunderstanding…
At this point the Sea Gull is gone. I’ve gone too far. The hour is 11:38 AM and I have to leave for the Frye Art Museum. Today will be relaxed, hopefully. Two 28 year old women live in a house nearby that I want to live in, and I have to ask my manager for Sunday off, to go talk to them.