The hallucinator sees the contents of their mind spread out before them, like dusty old knickknacks brought up from the basement and strewn out in the front yard. Their minds become a kaleidoscope. They look at their life and see themselves as a miracle. An accidental poem by this article in The Atlantic.
It is a wonder that my eyes may see the city from such varied perches, day to day: By bus: elevated so that I may gaze indulgently into wet, dirt-caked cavities of construction sites hidden when I am By bike: so that the flawed contours of road, frenzied traffic patterns spill soft city breath onContinue reading “PHILADELPHIA, NAKED.”
Urban climbing up concrete hills, what season is it anyway? Four straight days of light-flooded windows spark new leaves on the basil plant. I said it many times: I need a bigger sky, larger moon-stage, vast and brooding. On that shallow shore just north of here: why are the boats left floating free all night? WhatContinue reading “BIGGER SKY”
I’m sitting at the glass balcony and the sky is filling high tide with copper and lilacs. Small kids wear blue oversized football helmets and run in synchronized patterns in the field below. Now they hold hands, sweat caught in eyelashes (I’m guessing). They jump and spin and can’t stand still.
Turned out onto Washington: the great industrial avenue. Busy in the morning. Lumber yards, warehouses of lighting fixtures huge slabs of marble. All the men say good morning. Workers say good morning. Commuters are mute.