Photo by Jong Soo
On a flatbed truck, racing toward a victorian house, we’d been scrambling around on the roof, affixing security cameras on empty ladders & myself & a whiskey devil glanced at the nebulous sunrise. it was exploding. it was a madman of pink and orange, racous over miles & miles of the most expansive meadows of acres of brightest broken egg yolks marigolds, orangey & luminous, the color was mashed with saffrons and poppies, skyscraper sunflowers, there was clouds of the sunset, dispersed in balls & we could see the sun laid before us,
on a platter of panorama, like it was our job to name colors & save dreams for the blind. what are dreams like for the blind? the truck was going so painfully slow, even though we were racing & some of us had donated our toes. the texture of burlap hung heavy with the thought of missing that photograph. of the sunrise, for the cities & plagued us ’til we leapt off that flatbed, barefoot, racing for our silver boots to get back out there, to stand in the mist until, the color changed & we were lost forever.
as we ran, the grass belched with moisture under our feet, rapid to announce the coming daylight.
if only my words were liberated enough to describe that spectrum, i’m sure it made a meaning for meditation or something to dissect with fingers upon waking, before fleeing through my palms, slithering through my sleep & back to the nexus of the elastic, to make me pull at my strawberry braids, frothing about my city,
muttering;
