|
A hurried image in the darkroom. Scattered lights on the street leaving
trails like a string of pearls. And while the coast rages on I sit at night,
here, waiting for more images to come through the chemicals.
I read old letters. I detach. Then I find the piece written drunk last night on the roof of the Dixie. I was throwing gravel from the roof at Mike's window when suddenly I got the idea, remembered the moment and scrawled it down. No one understood it. No one does now. Vague and full of syntax problems...oh yeah? Piss off. So much writing seems to be getting done from the wrong side of the bottle these days. Or...so much of what ends up here.
Ether Steers looks at the star chart, not on paper, but rather in the sky. A dark moonless sky. The coin he flipped rotates slowly before settling on one side. It lay on the mahagony desk in front of the window. Six panes of iron. Outside the early Fall wind pulls leaves off the elm that has stood for decades, a mark of his sense of place. Ether Steers reads the sky and places its worth within his heart. He slides the coin off the desk, into his pocket and with some reluctance, limps quietly to bed.
8.27.98 |