A Black Feather, A poison pen... ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The rhythm and the echoes Walked home under a soft grey sky as the high clouds struggled to offload the last vestiges of a hurricane that crept up from the Gulf of California and the Sea of Cortez, shiny streets and early dark, the rain fell long enough and with enough consistency that it beat the rate of evaporation, but will not permeate enough ground to make more than a thin coat of mud out of bare earth and drag the oils and road-scum to the asphalt surfaces, sound of Milla's Rocket Collecting in my ears as i walked along, backpack slung over my shoulder, having to step carefully out from some of Jefferson Street by the Capitol building where the crews have torn it all up except for the two fresh lanes they put in after tearing up that side of the street last month. Fresh clove, no light, part with a smoke in exchange for a light from a random vagrant, walk along wishing the rain would fall harder so i could hear it slapping off the steelyard roof like machinegun fire from a distance most of all wishing for the last traces of summer to go away, waiting for the cold and just glad that the few shallow puddles were too brackish and muddy and filmed over with petrol residues to ever reflect my face back up at me 8:21 p.m. - 2003-09-24 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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