Monday, July 09, 2001
Walking To Work
~
It was that kind of morning. The kind neither sunglasses nor raincoats can quell. There was something peculiar about a grey sky, menacing, buy not entirely daunting, just there. Sword-like. Damoclean. I liked the way droplets fell on trees, onto leaves, down stems onto trunks, percolating, meshing. People weren't like rain. People's eyes always stared at the ground on days like this; I guess the leaf-imprinted, paper-mache, salami-like sidewalk was substitute enough for the grey skies. Or was it my eyes they sought to avoid? My grin? My truth?
S*
2001.07.10
It was that kind of morning. The kind neither sunglasses nor raincoats can quell. There was something peculiar about a grey sky, menacing, buy not entirely daunting, just there. Sword-like. Damoclean. I liked the way droplets fell on trees, onto leaves, down stems onto trunks, percolating, meshing. People weren't like rain. People's eyes always stared at the ground on days like this; I guess the leaf-imprinted, paper-mache, salami-like sidewalk was substitute enough for the grey skies. Or was it my eyes they sought to avoid? My grin? My truth?
S*
2001.07.10
Wednesday, July 04, 2001
Porcelain Angels Of The Modern Poet
~
I am foreign to the pen
and the brush
Scares me so.
But the velvetine, swift-sweeping
touch of the modern
Type reminds me
Or flowing hillsides like flowing
Prose. Like, like, like
A barefoot boy with beautiful cheeks and thick eyebrows, covering only his
wonderful,
Bright,
Windows to the
Soul.
S*
2001.07.05
I am foreign to the pen
and the brush
Scares me so.
But the velvetine, swift-sweeping
touch of the modern
Type reminds me
Or flowing hillsides like flowing
Prose. Like, like, like
A barefoot boy with beautiful cheeks and thick eyebrows, covering only his
wonderful,
Bright,
Windows to the
Soul.
S*
2001.07.05
Monday, July 02, 2001
The Next Day
~
Some say the day after is always the worst. Some say. The rising sun, whether you witnessed it or not, often becomes a tribute to all things promissory and predictable. I'll never do this again. Swear. Sweet Jesus my head hurts. As I remember the last twenty-four hours, I remember most things done, less of the things said, but especially everything thought. Fun times with friends, neighbours, beautiful people and warm individuals sharing a laugh, a song, a good time. It was any excuse to celebrate, any would do. But the crowd came from all over and the underlying, fundamental similarities or humanity shone thorough once again. Through people's eyes, moves, handshaking, shoulder hugging, hip swaying displays of patriotism and happiness. A people oft worked too hard, only to let loose for the occassional foray into madness, temporary alcoholism, temporary insanity. Into the time of truth, of beauty, where no deals are set; where north meets south. White and black were not: why would we have bothered? The grey areas are where the fun is. Grey is where life's tug-of-war is. Yesterday, I saw the stars crashing down. I saw your hearts, beating loud as thunder. I saw. We loved. You left. I remember. Until next year. My memory may become muddy, but the wispiest, fluffy, fun particles always make their way to sift and sit at the top of the happy times and the memories of my life.
S*
2001.07.02
Some say the day after is always the worst. Some say. The rising sun, whether you witnessed it or not, often becomes a tribute to all things promissory and predictable. I'll never do this again. Swear. Sweet Jesus my head hurts. As I remember the last twenty-four hours, I remember most things done, less of the things said, but especially everything thought. Fun times with friends, neighbours, beautiful people and warm individuals sharing a laugh, a song, a good time. It was any excuse to celebrate, any would do. But the crowd came from all over and the underlying, fundamental similarities or humanity shone thorough once again. Through people's eyes, moves, handshaking, shoulder hugging, hip swaying displays of patriotism and happiness. A people oft worked too hard, only to let loose for the occassional foray into madness, temporary alcoholism, temporary insanity. Into the time of truth, of beauty, where no deals are set; where north meets south. White and black were not: why would we have bothered? The grey areas are where the fun is. Grey is where life's tug-of-war is. Yesterday, I saw the stars crashing down. I saw your hearts, beating loud as thunder. I saw. We loved. You left. I remember. Until next year. My memory may become muddy, but the wispiest, fluffy, fun particles always make their way to sift and sit at the top of the happy times and the memories of my life.
S*
2001.07.02
