The ribbon of pellucid water unfurled through the downtown,
wending through high-rises and multistory parking garages.

The thin strand cut a clear path through the boxy urban landscape,
flowed past the flanking condos, blocks of concrete aggregated en masse.

A steady stream of joggers and cyclists trickled by the waterway.
People strode, strolled, rode e-scooters, moved with varied propulsion.

Skyscrapers towered off in the distance like a broken promise,
an elevation that was unscalable, forever illusory, ever eluding one’s path.

The pesto, the curry, the sugary tomato sauce,
the goat cheese-stuffed ravioli all expired someday.
No matter how rare, the food never had an inspiration date

The winter of our discontent
The spring of our discontent
The summer of our discontent
The fall of our discontent

We better move to Phoenix
or Miami or maybe the Bay Area
if we can afford it. So fatigued, so weary,
so tired of the endless changing of the seasons

The greats flame out in the fire of their own passions.
They burn like scintillating firecrackers against the dark.

From a distance, you feel lucky to witness such incandescence.
But the brightest brilliance burns through the feedstock of dry rot.

That Jello plate was pain, that half-bitten sandwich pain,
that drunken urinating a barely concealed cri de cœur.

Yngwie Malmsteen shredded on six strings,
set a new standard that was baroque beyond imagining.

The virtuoso rocker was a guitarist's guitarist,
a neoclassical metalhead strumming a Stratocaster like no other.

He impressed those in the know with his technical expertise.
He never struck a chord with a mainstream audience.

We cure the meat with coarse rock salt, malt vinegar,
coriander, black pepper, garlic, paprika, and time.

We cure the meat until it’s a dried-out husk of rawhide,
until it’s inured against the winter, the rough journey ahead.

We can’t inure ourselves so easily, brine ourselves
against the bacteria and contaminants, and harshness of life.

I wandered out of that rock club,
ears ringing with tintinnabulation,
gnarled and deadened ears unable to hear
as I stumbled around the empty courthouse square
searching for my parked car.

That indie band was loud,
loud as hell, loud to the point
where I was deprived of one my vital senses,
at least temporarily,
but I never had a better time.