4 o'clock, saturday Dread and Panic are holding hands in my chest: An extraordinary case of the mean reds watching the gray from my kitchen window
the cars parked over cement fields precisely 300 vehicles when full the boy sitting on a gray bench waiting with his baseball, shh! His gray father is shouting at his gray phone, his gray wife finally called that number. all gray.
the sky here is almost always sleeping a blanket of melting nimbus the gulls slide inoffensively over the roofs our courtyard grass trembles for them
the wind falls out of the bay wind, the world traveler without a suitcase I imagine it kicking up dust in exotic fields only the rocks are gray there, gray because they deserve to be.
the whole scene is quite extraordinary A Run Of Wild Horses! Gall-lop-ing gliding offensively, red and white and gold shining sweaty and flying! can you imagine?
--it's starting to rain and the boy is still sitting, he's so gray now I can hardly see him the wind still spills in from the bay down the road where I can see them running from my window-
Mains whipping like flags of furious change Hooves beating down the cement footpaths The streetlamps are crumpling into heaps of flowers Tails raging back and forth, metronomous passion chords
Fast, rapid gaining (Lover's Heartbeat) -the boy is yet unaware legs of inspiration fast approaching -the cars twist into red willows over golden hope fields Shh! His father, master of gray has been sacked! Tr-am-pled! Now his body of flowers lay in the street!
Arrest. They have arrested.
Standing tall and silent like Liberty they take the boy upon their shoulders, an acrobatic wonder and continue slowly across the grass -it still trembles for them and take flight, to the next courtyard and then the next.
I'll never forget the grayness of his eyes as he disappeared over the trees who were once chimneys, his mouth was stuffed full of flowers.