Tuesday, December 16, 2008

Albany Tatters

Naturally it was the crumbs left behind by Sleeping Beauty that ended up in the little orphan's dust bin. Wicked is fun to say and nobody really is anymore. The gas station of bad dreams.

More and more he cried. The air left their lungs and rose like a swarm of tiny balloons, higher and higher. What can't we consecrate?

From one rolling log to another, always whispering a prayer. It's a Waltons thing, you wouldn't understand. The tinny growl of generators up and down the cold street.

The colorful emblems of the new state. Wind up, wind down, wind all around. Fragments of a historical dress were much discussed at the Historical Society's annual dinner meeting.

I just don't understand you, he wrote. Yet every moment seemed ready to split open into reverie, insight. The dog crossed 112 to eat bird seed and shit in the neighbor's yard.

One lugging water buckets hums a familiar tune. Try this on for size. He held the same instrument, goosing it along.

Don't guess, do. Oh you in your Albany tatters.

No comments:

Post a Comment